


Explanations

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Aidan-verse 2: The Line War [5]
Category: Forever Knight, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Action/Adventure, BDSM, Crossover, Multi, Plotty, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, discussion of dub-con, slave-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damien's having trouble in Charleston, too -- he and Stormy have the date from hell, in fact.  In which questions are answered, and more questions arise, and more answers are demanded....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Explanations

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks & gratitude are due to all the people in the BDSM lifestyle who answered questions, read scenes, and helped as much as they could.  All errors are, of course, mine.  
>  **NB:**   Rated: NC-17 for graphic m/f/m sex, for BDSM, and for violence.  This is not my normal stuff, folks.

Charleston, South Carolina

The gusting breeze tossed gold hair around Stormy's face again and she spat it back out.  "God, I need a haircut," the young woman muttered to herself.  "But no, I have to spend all my free time working on that case for Damien Appesard."  Several brisk steps later she ruefully admitted, "Well, he wouldn't know or mind if I took the time for one.  This is what I get for being a workaholic."

Her hands dug deeper into the pockets of her parka, seeking warmth and shelter from the cold, damp air.  Out of habit, she glanced around the too-dark mall parking lot.  _They really need to do better maintenance on the lights out here_ , Stormy groused silently.

Deep brown eyes scanned the parking lot a last time as she stepped into the light from the mall façade and still saw nothing.  Overhead, it was hard to see the sky for the city lights, and the waning moon had set an hour ago.  At last suspicion faded, replaced by skepticism and disgusted self-derision.  "I have got to start getting more sleep," she muttered.  "Or drinking decaf after 3:00 PM."

In the darkness behind her, a slender young man spoke into his headset.  "Target has entered the restaurant.  You have at least one hour.  Begin."

~*~*~*~

  


Paris, France

Brown hair poured in a cloak around her waist as Aidan turned from examining the books on the shelves.  Light shone off that dark mass when she tilted her head to one side and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.  "All right, Joe Dawson.  It's a lovely night; yes, it's going to flurry tomorrow but nothing's going to stick; and all four of us have already eaten.  I'm not thirsty and I thank you, but I don't want a liqueur.  Now that we've exhausted the possible small talk, what did you want to discuss?  I've been wondering off and on since September.  It's November, Joe.  Talk to me, would you, please?"

Safely out of her line of sight, Methos rolled his eyes.  Joe had stalled too long and now Aidan was starting to get paranoid.  Not the most conducive frame of mind for a discussion on the Watchers and their Chronicles.  The oldest immortal stood and moved toward Joe, ostensibly to get a beer, but actually to be in between the mortal Watcher and the immortal female.

Joe poured two fingers of Scotch and handed it to her, waving toward the couch.  "Tell you what, drink this anyway.  I know in advance you're not gonna be real happy with some of this until you think about it, and I'd like something to slow you down enough to give you time to think about it."

Aidan snorted, a particularly indelicate sound which suggested her patience was starting to wear thin.  Then she abruptly laughed and said, "Oh, all right.  Never argue with a bartender who knows you.  I saw an interesting bumper sticker I'd have liked to buy you.  It said, 'A bartender is a pharmacist with a limited inventory.' "

Joe chuckled at that and waved a hand at the drink.  "Come on, Aidan, humor the old man, all right?"

"You're asking, not Methos," came the automatic reply, then she glanced at her former teacher and current lover.  "Or are you?"

"It wouldn't hurt."  Methos sprawled onto the barstool, still within easy access of her line of attack on Joe.  He noticed that Duncan had settled in next to Aidan and might actually be prepared to grab for her if it became necessary.  Good.

Aidan shook her head, tossed her hair back over her shoulder, and drank half the Scotch in a single gulp.  For a long second, it burned down her throat and then the fire settled in her stomach and banked itself into a pleasant glow across her limbs and nerves.  She set the glass down on the table in front of her, still half-full.

"Lovely stuff, Joe, we can discuss who distilled it later.  So, now that I'm anesthetized, what's going on?  Why are you in Paris?"

Joe sighed and commented apropos of nothing, "One of these days the Tribunal is going to get hold of my personal journals and I'm going to be shot down with a sniper scope for holding these talks."

Aidan blinked, grey eyes narrowing as she tried to translate that.  "Did you just say someone will kill you for talking to me?"

"Yeah, several someones.  You're an immortal.  I'm not supposed to be talking to any of you, much less friends with you.  I'm a Watcher.  It's against our oaths."

"You're not supposed to...."  Aidan paused and forced her brain to function, reminding herself that Joe had said she wouldn't like this and would want to go off half-cocked.  "A... watcher?  No, a Watcher."  The second time she emphasized the word to put the capital on, nodding slowly as she became sure that she had caught the intonation.

"One of several you're implying, with a... Tribunal that metes out punishments down to death unless you were exaggerating, and it didn't sound as if you were."  Aidan stared into the air as she continued to evaluate words and nuances.

Joe's eyes narrowed as he listened to this rapid-fire dissection.  He had always known that the Irish woman was no one's fool, possibly one of the most intelligent of the immortals, but he hadn't expected this.

"You aren't supposed to talk to immortals, and this sounds like a rule, not a whim or an imposed, isolated ruling, which implies an organized group which knows about--  A Watcher, private journals as opposed to--"

Methos was watching her closely, knowing just how volatile Edana's reactions could be.  The Druids who had named her after the flickering, ever-changing element of fire had been very perceptive.  He saw it the moment realization fell into place of exactly what Joe Watched if not who.  The sound of gears clicking and pieces falling into the wrong places should have been deafening.

"Joe, talk quickly," he said.

"Look, we're a neutral organization.  We're basically historians.  We observe, we record, but we never interfere.  We want some kind of record of immortals, so that humanity'll have a better idea what they're dealing with if the Gathering ever gets here."  Joe studied his drink for a second, then went on.  "Sometimes we're the only existing record of some of the immortals...."

Aidan cut him off.  "Stop.  Organization.  Historians.  Never interfere in what, Joe?  The Game?  Our lives?  What in the nine hells are you going to do with that record if someone like Sinan wins?  Or if Kronos had?  Or Connor?  You have records on us?  What kind?  How many of us?"

The color was slowly draining out of that triangular face, leaving already pale skin even paler.  Whether from shock or anger, the men couldn't tell.  More disturbing to Methos, she had begun to pull her presence in around her, deliberately shortening its range and controlling the usual emotions that rippled out around her to be felt by other immortals.  It did not strike him as a good sign that Aidan was both containing and hiding herself.

Duncan had known Aidan could expand her presence outward to cloak others; he hadn't known she could wrap herself in it and damned near vanish.  His eyes flickered from her to Methos and back, feeling the tension in the room escalate sharply.  He reached out to her with one hand and cold grey eyes made him drop the arm again.

Joe had no way of knowing what she was doing, so he tried to answer what she had asked.  "Look, do you want to take this from the top?"

"No, let's try something else."  Her voice was brisk, uninflected, and without accent; the tone was level and not particularly loud.  Joe flinched at that sign of growing rage.

"All of you knew about these Watchers, yes?"

Duncan answered that one.  "Yes.  We did, but--"

"But nothing.  What do you Watch, Joe?  Or is that who?"

"I'm Duncan's Watcher."

Again she cut him off before he could get any farther.  "And if you're keeping things in private journals that could get you shot, what are you putting in the less private journals and how public are they?"  Her voice had started to take on an almost palpable edge and Methos took that question.  Aidan could control aspects of the Voice and while he thought it was only in songs or chants, he didn't want to find out the hard way that he was wrong.

"The Watchers track important events in their immortal's life:  friends, enemies, fights, quickenings taken.  The journals are only seen by other Watchers, and even then only by Watchers who should be allowed to see them."

Aidan turned her head to look directly at him.  "How long has this been going on, Methos? "  It wasn't really a question.  She fully expected him to be able to answer and to do so promptly, that was implicit in her eyes and the set of her chin.

"Over a thousand years," he answered quietly.

"A thousand years we've had mortals following us, keeping records....  Are you going to tell me that none of us have ever found them and used these records to influence the Game?"  She kept her eyes locked on Methos, but something in her detached expression had Duncan's skin crawling.  That implacable mask only came out in sparring sessions when Connor or Methos pushed her too hard and she expanded the boundaries of how far she was willing to go.  Blood usually followed, in copious amounts.

"Darius found one of their Chronicles and did nothing with it.  One immortal did find out about them, but the Watchers worked with Duncan to neutralize the threat."  Methos carefully put as little information into his answer as possible, trying for spin control.

"Neutralize.  When did Darius find it?  Methos, Joe?  Duncan, if you have something to add, say it.  You've been awfully silent."

Joe looked at her.  "About five hundred years ago.  It was one of our oldest Chronicles."

Aidan glanced from Methos to Joe, from Joe to Duncan, then back to Joe.  "I heard rumors that no one knows who killed Darius.  No one knows who got the two thousand year quickening of one of the saints among the immortals.  I have heard of no one retreating onto Holy Ground.  Who killed Darius, Joe?"

Again, it wasn't a question and Duncan flinched despite himself.  She never turned but her voice was exquisitely controlled.  "Duncan."

Joe dragged the words out.  "Hunters did it.  Watchers gone bad.  We found them and killed them all eventually."

Her eyes had closed sometime during that statement.  For a hideous moment she looked like a wax effigy, deathly white features motionless, not breathing, not moving, no flickering emotion crossing that normally mobile face.  When she looked up, nostrils flaring with rage, her gaze burned across the room.

"Mortals killed Darius.  Was he the only one?  Do you know?  Will you ever?  Watchers gone bad -- spies turned rogue -- killed an immortal that old and you think you found all of them?  That you killed all of them?  You will never be sure, will you, Dawson?  You can't.  You have trained yourselves too well to be sure of that."  She stood up and reached for her coat.

"I will see all three of you for breakfast tomorrow, but if I stay here I may well kill someone."  She had abandoned the controls on her voice and fury tainted the normally bell-clear tones, acid loathing etched the very air  with roiling emotion.  "Spies.  Bad enough to live with my own kind hunting me, but to endure mortals watching my every move, too?"

The door slammed behind her and Methos dropped his hand back to his side.  Somewhere in that discussion, Duncan realized, the older man had been ready to draw a blade to stop her.  All three of them looked at each other and Joe poured himself a refill of the Scotch with a shaking hand.

"That didn't go too damn well."

Methos laughed shortly.  "Oh, I don't know, Joe.  She didn't draw a blade on us.  And we have a breakfast appointment."

Duncan sagged back against the couch.  "I thought I took it badly."

Joe flicked a glance at him.  "You did."

The Scot sighed and put his head back, eyes closed.  "You've known her longest, Methos.  How bad is this?"

Methos set down his now empty beer and got another one.  "She left rather than hurt us; she took her sword with her; she plans to share bread and salt with us in the morning."  He shrugged and sprawled back against the couch.  "It could be a lot worse, in other words.

"However.  Aidan will want a great many, very precise answers in the morning, Joe.  Be prepared for that.  I'll help as best I can, but I think what will save all the friendships involved here is the fact that she loves you dearly, Dawson.  She won't be able to reconcile the image of a prying, invasive spy with what she knows of you, and Edana isn't one to ignore facts or mistrust her own judgment of several months standing.  All told, it didn't go as badly as it could have.

"So.  See you at eight for breakfast?  I suggest we do this at the barge.  Let's leave her on what feels like her territory; besides, Aidan will be asking questions we'll want privacy for."

Joe nodded, then muttered, "God, I knew this wasn't going to be good, but...."

Duncan said quietly, "We hit a nerve there, went to a place on her map that should have been marked 'Here there be dragons.'  Somewhere, somehow, Aidan lost her privacy for an extended period or an excruciating purpose.  She hasn't forgiven or forgotten."

Methos stared at him.  "You may have a point there."

"I'm not blind, Methos, not to her and not to you."  Duncan sounded exasperated.  "Is she likely to do something stupid like go look for a challenge?"

"Gods, no.  You make it sound as if she left out of control."

Joe glanced up, wary and disturbed.  "That wasn't out of control?  You have got to be kidding, Methos."

The oldest immortal sighed in disgust.  "Joe, she never completely lost her temper.  I suspect she hasn't lost it in at least a millennium."

"What in hell is she like when she does lose her temper?" Joe growled.

"One of the lesser-known saints in the Catholic Church is Saint Methos, patron of teachers of recalcitrant students.  Edana with her temper gone was death on two legs and an absolute bitch.  Training her tested every bit of patience I had accumulated in two and a half millennia.  If I hadn't trained Ramirez before her, I'd have given up and taken her head."

"Why didn't you, then?"  Joe asked it partly out of interest, party to divert himself from how badly the conversation had gotten out of hand.  _I should have told her earlier.  I knew this._

"Because she had that much promise -- which I think has been largely realized.  And as... a self-imposed penance.  I killed too many  young immortals when I rode with Kronos and the others.  She was part of my attempt at redemption."  Methos didn't look at either of them as he said that.

Duncan reached out and pulled Methos in against him, wrapping his arms firmly around his lover's narrow waist.  "You were what you were, Methos.  It's done.  And if the work you did training Edana was part of your apology to the world, you did a damn fine job."

Joe nodded agreement, putting aside his own recriminations as being spilled milk.  "Ramirez and Aidan make for a helluva lot of bread on the water.  Don't beat yourself up, Adam.  It was three thousand years ago; give yourself a break just once."

Methos watched both of them out of ancient, unwavering eyes.  "Who says it was forgivable, Joe?  There were very good reasons for killing Kronos and the others.  They apply to me, too."

"Do they?  You've changed; the other three hadn't."  Duncan twisted around to look at Methos.  "That alone makes you different.  It's over, Methos.  You can't change it.  And it's part of what made you who you are, and there are a lot of people who love you.  Give up and admit we might just be right."

The older immortal leaned in against his lover, silent as he abandoned the dispute for now.  No sense in starting an argument he didn't want to win.

~*~*~*~

  


Charleston, South Carolina

Damiano studied the dossier carefully, grateful for his companion's innate tact.  For an immensely curious woman, Stormy was being very polite about not watching his face while he read.  And God knew, there couldn't be much interesting in the ingredient list for non-dairy creamer, which was what she was reading.

 _Well, well, well.  So that's your name lately, Johannes?_   He brushed aside the photo op of 'local businessman, Jan Urquhart' and went on to the other news clippings which detailed various appearances of an immortal who'd made himself a public screen of respectability.  Stormy was extremely thorough, although he was more than a little curious about some of her sources.  Where had she gotten both the name of Johannes' cleaning service and that of the escort service he favored?  Or the list of weapons he might have somewhere nearby, a small but intriguing assortment of daggers, swords, crossbows and, of all the damn things, a collection of black powder rifles?  After those, the Dunn & Bradstreet report on F & J Importers, describing a moderately profitable and very stable company of which Johannes was the visible partner, seemed downright normal.  _So who's the F of F & J, Johannes?_

Damien remembered his last meeting with the South African immortal so vividly he could almost see it still.  The blood-stained Italian uniform might or might not have been his; the blood and gore lying around Johannes, remnants of what had once been people, were definitely his doing, given the viscid drops still falling from a bayonet toward churned ground in Damien's too-sharp memory.  And then another member of the Canadian infantry unit had put two bullets into Johannes' chest from a safe distance and the immortal slid in a boneless heap to join the pile of corpses.....

 _David Trevor, that's a person I haven't remembered being in a while.  Damn, Canadian winters were an experience._   He turned his mind back to the now-known opponent.  _You were lucky, Johannes.  I should have made that death permanent, but there were too many witnesses.  Of course, I'll bet you said the same thing after we met that time in Vatican City and you couldn't touch me.  Twice now we've met and it hasn't been final.   Wonder if third time will pay the charm?_

Stormy sighed and asked, "Is it safe to look up, yet?"

"Sorry, Stormy."  Strong, roughened hands tidied the papers into a neat stack and closed the folder.  "Forget business for now.  What are you going to order?"

She flashed him a shy smile.  "I ordered for you.  The poor waiter had come by four times while you were reading and muttering.  Tell me you like fajitas."

"What if I didn't?" he asked, grinning wickedly.

"Well, you could try to steal off of my plate.  But you'd better like chicken enchiladas."

"Hmm.  Sour cream sauce or salsa verde?"

She glared at him.  "This is my once a week indulgence.  Sour cream.  You'd better have a really fast fork, buddy."

Damiano threw up his hands in mock fear.  "I'll eat the fajitas and like them, then."  One arm settled back into place, elbow defiantly on the table, and his chin propped on a fist.  "God knows this is a terrible time for this, and you know it from the file you put together for me, but what are you doing tonight?"

She blinked.  "Excuse me?"

"Tonight," he answered impatiently.  "Do you want to go see a movie, or go dancing, or do midnight bowling even if it isn't midnight yet?"

"Are you asking me on a date?"

Green eyes glared at her, defying the private investigator to say no.  "Yes."

She took a sip of her coffee, then munched another chip covered in salsa.  "Yes," she answered finally, a grin spreading across her face.  "I thought you'd never ask!  I haven't gone bowling in ages."

~ ~ ~ ~

"Where in the hell did she buy these locks?"

"Can you do the job or do we have to abort?"

A muted snarl answered the question and the stocky figure kneeling in front of the door growled, "We've already cashed the check, remember?  I'll do it.  I just have one more tumbler to get and you standing over me isn't going to speed it up."

"Fine, I'll go check the back windows.  You have three minutes, then we go to the backup plan."

"I thought you wanted this clandestine?" came the sarcastic reply.

"I want it done, too.  Three minutes."

~*~*~*~

  


Paris, France

In the brisk evening, Aidan took the stairs down two and three at a time, feet barely skimming the treads as she descended.  Once on the street she headed straight for the river, jostling people with a rudeness more usual in New York than Paris.  Never a slow walker, her stride now covered an appalling amount of ground extremely quickly.  By the time she reached the quay of the Seine she had warmed up enough to break into a fast, steady run by the water, uncaring of the dark or the time.  Normally she'd have danced to bleed excess emotion off with exertion, but this kind of rage demanded a more strenuous, thoughtless workout.

She ran to escape the words and rage burning through her blood, ran until every breath came with effort, until every stride slammed more of her temper into the earth which could bear it.  Her feet pounded a rhythm which her heart doubled, the uncaring syncopation of a superbly tuned body trying to silence its player.  At last there was nothing to her but the night and the rhythm of feet on pavement, the feel of wind whipping at skin and the cool, damp taste of humidity in the air.  Her mind shut down, uncaring of Watchers or ire, paying attention to nothing but the ground in front of her and the possible presence of another immortal.

Much, much later Aidan slowed to a more leisurely pace, drawing long, deep breaths to ease her body's clamor for oxygen.  Within a few minutes, she slowed further still to a quick walk and then a more moderate one.  As her mind began to function again, calmed by the exertion, she looked around to see where she was.  An automatic flexing of her shoulders checked for the shortsword down her shirt; her left hand brushed the hilt of her saber, her right slid over the smooth pommel stone of her dagger.  Reassured that she still had her weapons, she finally came to a stop.

A frown creased her forehead as she studied her surroundings.  In her daily rambles through and around Paris, Aidan had covered a great deal of ground in the last week.  This run, however, had taken her farther than she had previously gone.  A quick glance at her watch told her two hours had gone by.  From the tiredness in her legs (and she began walking again, lest the muscles cramp up on her), she had been moving at her best ground-covering stride.  All told, she had probably come a good twenty miles or so.

She turned back, tracking her path almost absently in the light from a waning moon.  Most of her attention had turned to what Joe had said, and Methos and Duncan as well.  Every time she tried to be angry at the grey-haired mortal, memories floated up that resisted her best efforts at rage:  Joe's arms around her as he trusted her to hold him up although he knew she'd been an assassin; the easy laughter in those hazel eyes as he hired her to tend his bar and gave her a place to stay for a month when he'd known her for all of two hours; the angry light in his face when he had, somehow, somewhere, found her painkillers to ease the healing of a severed spinal column.

Finally, disgusted with herself, Aidan sat down on a rock wall and gave up.  There was no hating Joe Dawson, not for her.  If he wasn't someone she could hate, what did that say for these Watchers?  Observers, hmm?  Duncan knew that Joe Watched him, wrote about him, and the two of them were still friends.  Although that did explain some of the disagreements she had overheard.  She stood back up, aware that she had promised to meet them in the morning for breakfast, and began walking back to the barge.

Journals.  Chronicles.  So they recorded the lives of the immortals.  That did sound like historians, especially in that they weren't supposed to interfere or interact with the observed. _Actually_ , Aidan mused, laughing quietly as she walked, _that sounds more like anthropologists or sociologists.  Come see the odd culture of the immortals.  What does it do to live your entire life trying to keep your head on your shoulders until the day you finally fail?_

Resolutely, Aidan turned her mind from that and back to the matter of these Watchers.  _All right.  Let's start at the top, for me at least.  Joe is one of them, Duncan and Methos know about them.  This tells me that the other two tolerate it at the least, possibly actively approve of these people.  Joe said he's keeping private journals.  This tells me he uses discretion on what he reports of Duncan.  But how much can he evade, how much of a strain is this on him? If he takes this seriously_ \-- _and knowing Joe Dawson I suspect he does_ \-- _he needs to be reporting why Duncan acts as he does as much as what he does or the report isn't truly complete, isn't what they need._

 _For that matter, how does he know what Dhonnchaidh is doing at any given time?  Does he follow Duncan, or have people who help?  With Joe's legs, he must need assistance occasionally._   Aidan stopped cold, struck by something she had put off at the time.  When Joe had first yanked Methos across the Atlantic to make up with Duncan, he had used a picture of Aidan and Duncan house-hunting to do it.  Where had he gotten the picture?  That had never been explained to her satisfaction.  Now she thought she knew.

 _So who else is a Watcher?  How do they identify themselves to each other?  And how do they keep us from killing them?  There have been no few centuries when I'd have ambushed someone following me without a third thought for the matter.  But Joe spoke of oaths, and a Tribunal, and assassination.  This is definitely an organization, one that binds and enforces its own.  How did Duncan find out about them?  With Methos, I would assume he caught someone following him and tracked them back, lovely, devious man that he is._

 _Neutral historians, hmm?  But one of us got hold of their records.  How much damage was done?  Who was it?  Methos dodged that very neatly._

 _What kind of records, I wonder?  Could I get to them and take my names out?  I don't want to be Watched; I had enough of that in Buchenwald._

 _But how much do they know?_   Aidan glanced around as she stepped up onto the rail of a bridge.  In this mood, she needed to keep her body busy to control her emotions, and she knew it.  _Joe knows about the Gathering and the Game.  I have no doubt he knows the rules as well as Duncan does.  Although this does explain some of the conversations we've  had.  And here I wondered how he could possibly find challenge protocols interesting!  I doubt Joe learned the rules from Dhonnchaidh, despite what he told me.  So.  Where does that leave me?_

 _How many of us do they track?  Have they missed any of us?  How do they track us without dying in droves?  Who's Watching me?  I've not noticed anyone, and I'll be wary for it now.  He's got to know...._

 _Joe does know that.  So what is his game?  He wants me to know about them. Why, in the names of the Gods?  Why did the three of them wait, and having waited so long why did they tell me at all?  If Joe Watches Duncan, yes, that would explain why he came to Paris, but why tell me?  Other explanations would have worked._  She hopped back down on the far end of the bridge and frowned.

 _Did they truly think I would believe that it's all objective reporting:  'the facts, ma'am, nothing but the facts?'  And the worst of it is that I cannot blame them for wanting to Watch.  If they know about the Gathering, about the Prize and its implications, I can understand why they want to know about whoever wins.  That means they have to watch us all._

 _How do they find us, I wonder?  I imagine they catch a lot of us by following, by seeing who takes students, by following unknown victors of fights.  But how do they find the new ones?  Or do they? We can't always feel pre-immortals, so I doubt they can.  I suppose they could have skilled diviners but that's a damnably rare gene.  Regardless, they have found us, and a good many of us I would suspect from Joe's reactions._

 _But are they looking at the ramifications of the Gathering and the Prize?  The need for security of their information, the possible necessity of assassinating whoever wins the Game if it's someone like the Felicia Martens or Owain Rhys-Tewdor?  I would bet that they aren't, that they don't.  That's down the road, someone else's problem.  Oh Gods of my people, what are they doing?! Do they even know?_

 _Who's looking at the long-term, at plans for the Gathering and its aftermath?  If I can make it that long, if there truly is a Gathering, I plan to tamper with it, to split the Prize among as many of us as I trust and can balance in the spell.  I haven't even told Methos that I think I know how to do it, if I can just get the right mix of people to the Gathering.  Why raise his hopes too early?  This isn't exactly a spell I can practice ahead of time.  And I already know that the cost for it will be high.  I think it will kill me, permanently, whether my head comes away from my shoulders or not._

 _Does that even matter?  Do I care?  It's been a long life.  I haven't spun back around the circle in almost twenty-seven centuries._ She stopped and looked up at the waning moon, one of the few constants in her long life.  Even the stars had shifted since her birth, but the moon still rose and set, waxed and waned, moving in patterns she could have traced blindfolded.  The very warmth from the sun was inconstant, but not her Mother the moon.

 _Be honest, Edana.  You have had a great deal of joy and a great deal of pain, and you've been alive, not just living.  Yes, I will mind dying, probably a very great deal.  It will hurt Duncan and Methos as well, but they'll still have each other.  And Dhonnchaidh loves Methos more than me, although I don't think he'd say it.  But oh, bright Gods, to see Dani again.  To be with Arslan and Hajji and the rest in another life....  I have lost so very many, mortal and immortal alike.  I would not mind seeing them again.  It would be such a relief to finally be done with this, to lay this task down.  Two thousand years is more than long enough to study magic, to study weather and people and art.  I'm so tired some days._

She crossed  another tributary, moving easily over the bridge as she headed back towards the _Nobile_ , and froze.  Immortal presence brushed across her for an instant, faint as if they were on the very edge of her perception and off to her right. _Male, young, not four centuries yet, maybe not even three.  Not Duncan or Methos.  Who else is in town?_

Reflexively she sought and hid in the nearest shadows, waiting to see who would come.  He would have to cross a moon-lit pavement to come near her.  This far from the main center of the city, at this time of night, the man should be easily identified.  Then she stiffened, feeling presence again.  Female, this one, and older -- easily eight centuries, maybe ten.  And coming from her left now, moving toward the same point as the man.

 _Well, well, well.  Either I've found an ongoing challenge or they're hunting as a pair.  I wonder which it is?  I think that, rather than find out it's the latter, I'm going to leave._ Quickly, cautiously, Aidan rubbed out sore quads, massaged aching calves, and studied the terrain in front of her.  _A long run across the moonlight, unfortunately, and no sign of clouds to cover me.  But after that, shadow from trees and a track by the water, where I can dive in if need be._

 _Methos always says that Duncan being in a city seems to triple the number of immortals nearby.  I think he was serious._   She paused to gather air into her lungs in deliberate hyperventilation before she began the run, and in the back of her mind Aidan laughed. _Tired of life, am I?  I guess old habits die as hard as I do._

The female's presence brushed her again -- heading straight in, Aidan guessed -- and the dark-haired woman launched herself across the moon-lit pavement.  Within five strides she had hit her full speed.  She crossed the fifty feet of bright concrete at a sprint and never slowed as she hit her chosen track by the water, running blind and trusting her body to recover if she tumbled.  Behind her, she heard a whippoorwill call.  When a screech owl responded, Aidan knew she had a problem.

Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light under the trees and the Irishwoman pushed herself to her running pace of six minutes per mile.  She couldn't keep up the sprint forever, but this steady, killing cadence she could do all day if absolutely necessary.  Part of her bemoaned the earlier, rash run against her temper, but most of her mind was occupied with doing the other thing she found necessary.  As she ran, Aidan began to pull up the images and patterns of thought which would pull her presence in around her.  The sooner those two lost her, the better.

The easier running ground was on the other side of the river, but she had crossed the bridge precisely for that reason.  No time to regret it now; now it was time to vanish, to simply fade away inside the trees and the precincts of Paris, to hide among other people if necessary, although that was not necessarily on her list of preferred ways to handle this.

Twice in the first fifteen minutes Aidan thought them gone, left behind.  Both times, she heard movement behind her and concluded she hadn't been so lucky.  After all, even if she couldn't feel them -- the unfortunate side effect of pulling in her own presence -- who else would be mad enough to be running so late at night?

After thirty minutes, though, there had been no sound for the last ten.  Aidan grimly made herself run another half hour at the same pace, staying on concrete and pavement whenever possible so as not to leave a trail.  At one intersection, the thought of a taxi crossed her mind, but she had left most of her cash at home.  They'd been going to Joe's for dinner after all.  She hadn't thought to need more than maybe money for a cover charge and a couple of drinks.  That wasn't nearly enough for a ten-mile taxi ride.

Looking around, a cross street leaped out at her and without a second thought Aidan followed it.  Within a very few minutes she stood in front of Saint Julien's, Darius' old church.  Surely the door would still be unlocked; even in these troubled times the sanctuary should be open.  Aidan stepped inside the metal gate, moving it as soundlessly as possible, and slowed to a panting walk as she approached the main doors.  For several long minutes she stood in the shadows, catching her breath and watching for pursuers.

Twenty minutes went by and she heard nothing, felt no one.  Another twenty gave the same result.  After she had stood there an hour, Aidan sighed and stepped inside to make her devotion to the Mother in her guise as Mary, descendant of David.

There was an aura of patience here, the result of long years of reverent worship that had seeped into the very stones and air around.  Aidan sat on one of the steps leading up the niche with the statue of the Virgin Mother and soaked in that peace and certainty, cleansing her soul with it, drinking it like a woman dying for lack of water.  When she saw the brother enter in his familiar brown habit, for a long moment she thought it was Darius come to offer some dreadful herbal tea and ask what was troubling her this time.

Instead the monk genuflected, walked to the altar, and knelt again.  Only then did he see her sitting on the stone step below the Virgin's statue, long dark hair coiling on the step above.  She filed away in her mind the greying hair Darius would never have, the very slight paunch, and the dark brown eyes so different from Darius' in color and so similar in the warm sympathy and caring that shone out.

"My child, it's late.  May I help with whatever is wrong?"

Aidan's eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she couldn't have said why.  Maybe it was only grief for Darius, or perhaps just the surprise of the monk's easy acceptance, but it touched her deeply that at one in the morning he had the kindness to worry about her.

"No, Brother, thank you.  I just needed to sit and think.  I argued with some friends earlier, lost my temper, and I'm turning over my fears to be rid of them.  I'm sorry to have disturbed you."  She kept her voice even and blinked several times to force back the tears.

"Well, it's said that wrath is one of the seven deadly sins, my child, but we all of us do it at times.  Have you said anything to them that cannot be taken back?"  He pulled up his robes and settled onto a chair facing her, apparently unconcerned that she sat in the consecrated space.

"No, I left before I could.  That much control I had."

He smiled at her and said, "Well, then I rather think you have done all you must, especially as you seem intent on looking at the problem and resolving it.  It sounds as though you think the fight your fault.  Was it, truly, or are you taking too much of the blame on yourself?"

She leaned back on her hands and laughed quietly.  "Oh, possibly a bit too much.  They didn't tell me some things they should have for several months and when they finally told me I was angry.  It hurt that they hadn't confided in me before, for one, and I disliked what they told me very much for another."

"Ah.  Do you usually give and receive honesty with them?"

"Yes."  That drew a smile.  "Considering how devious one of them is, it's a high compliment he pays me with the truth.  But yes, it's partly their fault.  I should have controlled myself and listened, I suppose, but they should never have let this go so long."

"Perhaps you should ask them why they did, then.  But your fears?  Are you come to terms with them, my daughter?"  He leaned forward in interest.  The young woman seemed very familiar, surely he had seen her before.

"To terms?  No, Brother, they're not laid to rest.  But I have managed to start thinking about how to deal with them, and I can be content in that."  Aidan sat up and began to finger-comb her hair absently, trying to settle it enough to braid it into place.

"You sound so like one of our Brothers...."  The perceptive monk paused, startled, then asked, "Daughter, were you not here some years ago to visit Brother Darius?"

"A few years ago, yes.  I'm sorry, I had heard of his death.  I hadn't meant to disturb anyone, but the church was familiar and I needed peace too badly not to stop."

"Yes, I remember now."  He looked at her carefully.  "You were unhappy that night, too."

"Someone I loved very dearly had died."  Aidan stood, then turned and dropped a deep curtsey to the statue of the Virgin.  "I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Brother."

The cleric regarded her from a holy calm and asked gently, "Do you wish my blessing, daughter?"

She turned back to him and smiled, a whimsical, rueful expression.  Equally gently Aidan replied, "I thank you for the kind thought, but your God has no great regard for me.  I am not within His dominion."

"All things are within His dominion, but I thought I remembered that you were of another religion.  I am glad you found peace here, even though this house is not of your faith."  He reached out with an open hand and waved to encompass the church.  "The house of God is always open to you, no matter Who you worship.  Remember that when you need shelter from the world and its cares.  It is one of the reasons we are here."

"The other Brothers may not be as tolerant," she pointed out.

"Unfortunately for them, Sister, once elected the Father of the order may not be removed save by his own will, and sometimes not then.  It is entirely too late for them to argue with me about it.  I hope to see you another time in better spirits.  Perhaps we can discuss then how I can convert you to the true faith," and he smiled at her to keep that from stinging.

Aidan chuckled appreciatively at the shot.  "Perhaps I'll bring you over to the grace of my Lady instead, Father.  I will make a point of coming again, if only to let you know that yes, I've reconciled with my friends."

"I would appreciate that.  I have found that only the truly upset come in at this hour, and this will worry me somewhat until I hear how it has turned out.  May I offer up prayers for your friends, at least?"

"Please.  Duncan would appreciate that, I have no doubt, and Joe might as well."  She threw him a mischievous look, then drew herself to her full height and spoke in the quiet, certain tones of one who had said the formula a thousand times and meant it on every repetition.

"May the peace of the Lady be on this place, and all within it, and all who come to it with good intent."

The abbot smiled back at her, then replied, "And may the Lord guard you on your path, my well-meaning heretic."

Aidan laughed at that.  "Another night, Father, I will come by.  My word on it, short of death."

"Try not to do that, hmm?  And next time, my lady priestess, please, come in the daytime.  I'll even offer you some tea that came from India, not that interesting stuff Darius made."  Bayard walked her to the door and watched as she strode away.  An interesting young woman, but then so many of Darius' friends had been.

In the chill night air, Aidan walked briskly as much for warmth as to get home and sleep.  Behind her, she heard nothing.  In front of her the occasional car rushed by, or a young couple wended their unsteady way home from a bar.  A very few places were still open for business, most of them filled with young people looking for love or lust in what were undoubtedly the wrong places.  Swift hands detangled her hair as much as possible then began to braid it down her back and a barrette from her pocket tied off the end.

Once she heard a swift jig being played but the music ended before she got there.  In St. Germaine, however, she heard wailing jazz pour off the sidewalks and slowed to see who was still open.  That did not sound like a stereo system.  The sign over the club read 'Nosferateu' and Aidan shrugged mentally then turned within.  Why not?  Good music should finish improving her mood before she went home to Duncan and Methos.

The first thing she noticed was the decor.  Gleaming wood reflected muted lights, and the soft shine of the brass fixtures managed to be homey rather than fashionably bright.  Even this late, and by now it was two in the morning, a good number of people were still talking and dancing to the jazz pianist and sax player.  There was nothing hectic or manic to it; no one was living on caffeine nerves.  She noticed without too much surprise (given the name of the place) that they weren't all breathing, either.

Her first reaction was, _I should have known_.  Her second reaction was, _Do I feel up to this?_   Her third reaction was amused resignation that it was entirely too late.

A slender, dark-haired vampire walked directly toward her and smiled.  " _Bon soir, mademoiselle._   It is much too late for a cover charge, so make yourself welcome in my establishment.  I am Janette DuCharme."

Aidan had already started to hold her hand out to shake with the woman, but at the name her smile expanded from the merely polite to truly friendly.  "I'm Aidan Logan.  I believe we may have mutual friends."

Janette smiled merrily, "Oh, I think we have more than one, _cher_ , but who were you thinking of?"

The immortal reclaimed her hand before replying, "Nicholas Knight and Lucien LaCroix are good friends of mine."

The vampire reappraised her, intrigued that she had not named the other swordsmen, only their mutual vampire acquaintances.  "So?  Lucien had mentioned an Aidan to me when I last saw him.  Would you be known by any other names?"

Aidan tilted her head, returning the study.  "Phaedra might be one, or Sulwen."

"I am pleased to meet you.  However, you smell of the night, and of sweat and pain.  May I offer you something cool to drink, perhaps a place to clean up slightly?"  Without waiting for a reply, Janette led her toward the back of the room and settled them both in a comfortable booth to one side of the stage.  The booth walls cut down on the noise nicely.

When the server came, Aidan asked for a very large glass of Evian and an extra napkin.  Janette calmly told him to bring a glass of her usual as well, and showed Aidan the door to her office.  "There is a sink in there, Aidan, and some clothes.  Why don't you clean up and then we can talk for a little while, yes?"

"Certainly.  And thank you."  Aidan moved quickly, not wanting to keep any vampire waiting impatiently, much less one of LaCroix's daughters.  Although this one didn't seem nearly so volatile as her sire.  She bundled up her sweat-soaked shirt to take with her, choosing a top that fit and flattered.  Not wise to insult a vampire's hospitality by taking the least of that offered, but best not to push, either, by presuming to take the best.

When she came back out, cleaner and feeling better for having had a chance to brush and properly braid her hair, a large, cold bottle of spring water sat next to a frosted glass.

Janette was watching the dancers with an approving eye, which she promptly turned on Aidan. _So, this is the one who learned endurance from LaCroix.  He taught her well._

"You have a gorgeous club.  I would enjoy bringing some of my friends here when this band plays again, if  you wouldn't object."  Aidan saw thoughts spinning behind the other woman's violet eyes and moved to divert them to a less dangerous path, that of meaningless conversation.

"Ah, by all means do that."  The two dark-haired women exchanged small talk for a while, circling around each other until Janette looked up and caught Aidan's eyes -- and they both smiled.

"Enough diplomacy?" Aidan asked.

"Oh, surely.  So, how recently have you seen my sire or my brother?"

"Not since July, I'm afraid, and early July at that.  I expect to see one or both next month, though, at a Christmas party.  Have you seen them or have you been over here?"

Janette sipped her blood and wine cocktail then replied, "I have been over here, but I have seen LaCroix.  He came for a short visit in late September and mentioned you then.  Did you truly kill two swordsmen in my nightclub?"

"I killed them in the Raven, yes, but I took them outside to make it permanent.  Is the Raven yours?"

"Well, it was."  The vampire shrugged daintily.  "Old habits, you see, even if I did sell it to LaCroix.  He said the swordsmen were dangerous but I have never met one of the women before, only a few of the men."

Aidan chuckled.  "Oh, as always, the women are slightly weaker and generally much more tricky to compensate.  About the way it is with you all.  Nothing unusual in that."

Janette laughed.  "Isn't that how we all do it?  Although very few are stronger than me anymore."

That drew an answering smile.  "I should hope not.  I truly hate to drink and run, Janette, but may I come another night and talk?  I fear I'm too tired to be good company."

"The company is quite good but I still understand the need for sleep.  Please, come again another night.  And bring those gorgeous men I smell on you.  They are excellent dancers, the both of them, and always a pleasure to see."  Janette cocked her head, interested to see that this one showed no jealousy, no surprise at the casual use of a vampire's sharper senses.  LaCroix had said she played the game well, but it was one thing to hear and another to actually witness.

"Who, Duncan and Adam?  I'll do that.  They were the ones I thought would like the jazz band, them and another friend, Joe.  Do you know him?"

"No, I don't.  I look forward to seeing you another time."  Janette frowned prettily as Aidan dug in her coat for money.  "Nonsense, there is no need to pay.  Another night, you may make it up, but a bottle of water is not worth the trouble."

Aidan nodded.  "As you will, Janette.  This has been an unexpected pleasure indeed.  If you speak to LaCroix, will you please extend my greetings?"

"Of course.  And if you will do the same with Nick when you see him next month, I would appreciate it.  Now go, sleep.  Another night we will talk the moon down."

All the way out the door, Aidan waited for the other shoe to drop but nothing happened.  Walking down the street, grateful to be getting close to the barge at last, she decided that Janette was simply friendly.  _Odd in a vampire, but a pleasant surprise, and after Nick not entirely a shock._

Out of habit, she approached the barge from downwind and raised an eyebrow at the smell of stale cigarette smoke.  Cautiously she tested the air for wind direction and tracked the scent to its source.  A small pile of cigarette butts lay scattered across an area perhaps two feet square, apparently discarded by someone who had no thought for mess.  What disturbed her was the view from where she stood under the bridge.  Maurice's barge hid behind the _Nobile_ from this angle.  Whoever had stood here for long enough to smoke a pack of cigarettes, not all of them damp yet from the fog, had had nothing to watch except river traffic -- or Duncan's barge.

Definitely something to ask Joe about in the morning.  He didn't smoke, she knew, but perhaps he had a helper who did.  If not... well, two immortals had tried for her head earlier and another had been searching for an unnamed immortal in the Raven according to LaCroix.  It might be time to go hunting, this time with a backup to make the numbers more equal.

Coming onto the barge, tired but finally relaxed, Aidan checked the time on her watch and groaned.  Well past three in the morning, and she was going to meet with Joe for breakfast?  Gods grant wisdom soon, since she was so clearly in need.  By her second pace on the gangplank she could feel the harmonizing presences inside the barge, and knew they felt her, too.  She unlocked the door, then shot the bolt again after she was inside.

"Go back to sleep, you two, it's only the Wicked Witch of the East."

A lazy, sleepy comment from Methos brought a chuckle.  "Wasn't she the idiot who stood under a falling house?  Can't be the right witch.  How about the Good Witch of the North?  Did Baum ever do anything with her?"

"Not that I recall, but I haven't read those in ages."  Aidan watched out the window for a moment, looking toward the cul-de-sac under the bridge.  No cigarette showed its red glow; whoever it was had not returned.  She pulled off her coat, then her borrowed sweater, then the sword harness under those.  She put her short sword by the door, hilt to the inside of the room, and walked across the barge to join them.

Duncan had propped up on one elbow; he looked from the short sword to her and back.  "Problem?"

"I think so.  Nothing that won't wait until the alarm goes off, though."  She settled her coat on the coat rack, then looked at both of them.  "Am I forgiven my temper, or do I need to sleep on the couch?"

In answer, Duncan held the covers out of the way.  "You're forgiven.  Come to bed.  Joe will be here at eight for breakfast."

That drew a startled chuckle and a smile.  "Eight?  Does Joe know what hour of the morning that is?"  She began to strip her clothes off, dropping them neatly in the hamper, and tossing the sweat-soaked sweater after.  Aidan walked wearily to the bed and settled her saber on the floor nearby.  Her dagger landed on the right side of the headboard, where it usually went.

Methos nudged it to the center of the headboard.  "Come climb in the middle, wench.  And yes, he knows that hour of the morning, he simply avoids it usually.  Our version of a compromise between the night owls and the morning people."

Aidan climbed in between them and sighed in sheer bliss as Methos began to rub out her back.  Never one to dodge necessary apologies, she extended hers immediately.  "I'm sorry I pushed you away earlier, Duncan."

The Scot thought about that for a second, then realized what she meant  "It's all right, Aidan.  I trained with Connor, remember.  I've been glared at a few times before."

"Yes, I know what he can be like."  She chuckled, then moaned as skillful hands caught the tension in her lower back.

Duncan asked quietly, "So what hurts?"

"Oh, mostly my legs.  I did about forty miles tonight."  She laughed ruefully.  "Gods, my temper....  Someone should enter me in a marathon and then insult me."

The two men pushed her onto her belly and stripped the covers down to rub out sore muscles.  Methos took her back and upper legs; Duncan started with her foot, planning to work up to the calf.  Firelight flickered over them from the banked stove, and the smell of beeswax and sex hung in the air.

"So what were you two doing while I was admitting I'd been the Gods' own torment to you?"

"This and that."  Methos face held its usual half-smile and Duncan leaned over and kissed him.

"Let me guess.  Did it involve playing chess, arguing over music, making love, and getting some sleep?"  The fond amusement in her voice kept the question from being insulting.

"You haven't objected to peaceful evenings before now," Duncan pointed out mildly as he dug into a particularly rough knot in her calf.  That drew a soft squeak, then she breathed into the pain and the muscle began to relax.  "And it was Go."

"So, Edana, what kind of trouble can wait 'til morning?"  Methos kept working as he asked it, wanting to get her relaxed and under the covers before all three of them got cold and had to put Duncan in the middle to get warm again.  Better she sleep between the two men tonight, so that she'd know they weren't angry with her.

"By any chance, does Joe have help in Watching?"  She kept her tone level, aware that Methos would interpret that as something other than an attack.

"Not in Paris, no.  Usually he relies on Duncan to come by and tell him if something important is going on.  Why?"  The older immortal continued digging into ass muscles, but he raised an eyebrow at Duncan in query.  The quick headshake back told him the younger man had no clue where this was going either.

"Someone has been standing under the bridge since sunset, I'd say sometime in the last three hours at most.  They were there long enough to smoke almost twenty cigarettes.  The only view from where the spot where the butts were left is this barge."  She paused for a moment, adjusting to pain and then release as Duncan switched to her other foot.

"And two immortals tried to hound me tonight.  Male, probably three to four hundred, I think; female, somewhere around eight hundred.  Very fast.  One of them kept pace with me for the first fifteen minutes or so before giving up.  They were using recognition signs of a whippoorwill call and a screech owl response.  Ring any bells?"

Duncan shook his head, grim.  "No, they don't.  You're sure on the timing of the spy?"

"Did the fog come up around midnight as usual?"  Aidan hissed as one muscle proved recalcitrant.

Methos dug into her hamstrings, hearing her curse softly.  "Yes, it did.  How many miles did you run?  Forty you said?"

"About that.  Call it three hours of running, and another two of walking.  The butts weren't all damp, so I'd say I'm right on the timing.  The fog hadn't completely seeped in, yet."  She sighed as they finished and pulled the covers back up.  Without thinking about it, Aidan curled onto her side, her back snugly against Methos' chest, both their heads resting on Duncan's arm and the pillow.  She threw a leg over Duncan, wanting the extra contact of skin on skin.

Behind her Methos said quietly, "The recognition signals sound familiar.  I could swear that Jirina Petesceu used to use those calls, and she'd be around the right age.  Seven hundred or so, I think, but she has done a good bit of head-hunting."

Duncan commented sarcastically, "Well, we can certainly get that confirmed tomorrow.  We just call Amanda and ask."

"Amanda?  Really?  What does she have to do with this?"  Aidan asked it curiously, even as sleep tugged at her.

"She loathes Jirina.  As I remember the story, Jirina tried to seduce Damien Appesard back when he and Amanda were an item, during the fifteenth century I think.  I could swear I heard something about a frame-up, too."  Duncan sounded more amused than anything else.

Methos replied simply, "Oh, there was a frame, all right, MacLeod.  Amanda was accused of poisoning a noble.  It took two months for Rebecca to sort out what had happened, and another three for the two of us to break Amanda out.  She'd had to pretend to take up orders to get her sentence commuted from death.  The Mother Superior in that convent should have been running the Spanish Armada; they'd have beaten England if she had."

Aidan giggled at that, sounding sleepy.  "I've got Amanda's number; I'll call her in the morning and ask.  But regardless, we need to go hunting tomorrow.  They were definitely trying to work together.  I hate people who don't understand logic."

Duncan raised an eyebrow at that, but he could tell from the relaxed breathing that she had slid down into sleep.  He looked over at Methos, curious.  "Was that a non sequitur?"

"Not in the slightest.  Aidan holds to a simple rule I taught her, one I could wish you'd consider using.  When the other side stops playing by the rules, so does she."  Methos reached over Aidan's side to stroke the younger man's face.  "Think about it, hmm?  Three on two might be what they deserve."

"I'll think about it, Methos.  I promise.  So are we forgiven, do you think?"  Duncan caught his lover's hand in his own and they linked fingers together, arms resting easily on Aidan's side.

"She came in apologizing, so I'd say so.  Get some sleep, MacLeod, we'll be getting up entirely too early."  He sounded disgusted at the thought.

Duncan chuckled at that and felt Aidan purr against his chest and settle more comfortably between them.  "Look at it this way, Methos.  After we talk to Joe, you two can curl up and grab a nap while I think about where to go looking for those two immortals."

"First we'll have to find out where all she went and where she lost them, but yes, that sounds good."  Methos yawned and briefly tightened his grip on Duncan's hand.  "Get some sleep, hmm?"

His only answer was an answering clasp and a drowsy noise of agreement.

~*~*~*~

  


Charleston, South Carolina

"Coming in for coffee?"  Stormy asked cheerfully, hunting for her front door key as they stood on the sidewalk.

"I don't know if you're up to it," Damien answered thoughtfully, running a hand through dark red hair.  "You only managed to steal three bites of my flan at dinner."

"I was guarding my sopapilla," she retorted, grinning at him.  "I notice you only stole a couple bites yourself."

"Best defense is a good offense.  Besides, the flan was better."  The immortal laughed at her indignant expression.

"Decadent fiend.  Come get some caffeine, why don't you?"  She tugged at his arm, all too aware that this was rather like some of the old Warner Brothers cartoons of the small dog dragging the mastiff.

Damien strolled along willingly enough while contemplating her duplex, what he could see of it in the dark of the moon. "I like the house.  Mid-forties construction?"

"Mmm-hmm.  Post-war construction boom.  I've got it to myself at the moment; the next door neighbor couldn't cope with my coming and going at such odd hours.  She kept looking for debauched parties and other sinful extravagances."

"Died of shock?"

Stormy giggled and pushed her hair off her face again.  "Nope.  Frustration.  Coming in for coffee or not?"

"I don't know," Damien replied dubiously.  "I'd hate to ruin your reputation."

"You must admit, it is traditional to kiss the lady good night on her doorstep.  This," and she waved one hand at the concrete sidewalk in a parody of a Southern beauty queen, "hardly counts, sir."  The deep South accent thickened on every syllable until her husky whisper poured across the night like wild orange honey:  thick, sweet, and faintly exotic.

Damien swallowed and counted to ten mentally, then did it again in Italian, and German, and Urdu for good measure while his pulse came back under control.  A slip of a woman seemed to have gotten in under his skin and digging her out was going to hurt like hell... another day.  When he had control again, he offered her his arm.  "May I escort you to your door, and possibly a kitchen table, miss?"

"Why, thank you, kind sir."  She settled a hand on his forearm, just above the elbow, then promptly had to let go to unlock the door.  "Come on in, but you'll have to pardon--"

The mess she had meant him to pardon was far too extensive and Damien was already moving to shield Stormy when the first man stepped out with a gun.

"Hands up, slowly."  His voice was impersonal, professional.  "Ms. Storm, close the door behind you.  Run and I cripple your friend here.  Do you understand?"

"I understand you," Stormy answered, keeping her own voice steady with an effort when she saw the masked, gloved man in her house.  "Why don't you let him leave?  He hasn't seen your face yet."  Her hands never trembled as she pulled the door shut.  Panic would come later, if they survived; for now, she was trying to decide if he had accomplices and wishing her gun held more than nine bullets.

"I'm afraid not, Ms. Storm.  Now, both of you move forward.  Please don't move quickly; if you make me nervous, I'll have to shoot you.  I'm sure you'd agree with me that a .45 bullet does the most agonizing things to a knee-cap."

Damien growled, "We're not stupid.  What do you want?"

"For now?  That you sit on the couch.  When we're done here, she and I will talk.  But I'm afraid that you asked the wrong woman out."

"Story of my life," the immortal muttered before he thought about it.  Behind him he hard a stifled noise from Stormy which could have been indignation or laughter and he didn't know which.  Very deliberately, Damiano moved as slowly as possible.  Sitting down would limit his options severely; he had to take this idiot out now, before the mortal lady with him was injured.

"Then you should have looked for the moral sooner," came the amused reply.  "Please, sit."

Damien turned cautiously, studying the wreckage of what had once been a cozy den.  Books lay strewn on the floor, bindings razored and pages spilled like sea-wrack around them.  Drawers from the desk were stacked haphazardly, their contents scattered around them.  File-folders and notes had been set to one side, with film envelopes advertising Walgreen's 24-hour development prices.  Portraits and art had been removed from the walls, the glass broken and the frames twisted to remove the subjects; gouges in the sofa and chairs exposed stuffing.  He heard Stormy hiss behind him and knew she'd finally seen the destruction of her house.

In the corner of his eye, the redhead saw movement, an arm or leg coming into view, and he grabbed the chance.  With one hand, he scooped up shards of glass that had once protected a da Vinci print and threw them at the gunman who'd met them at the door.  "Stormy, run!"

In his peripheral vision Damien saw a man rushing him, hand hooked in and fingers pinched tightly together in a shape reminiscent of a bird's bill and just as capable of causing damage.  The immortal blocked reflexively, trusting the layers of muscle on his arm to take the impact and protect the bone.  A small part of his mind remembered that killing would attract too much attention, and he risked a jiu-jitsu attack which dropped the blood pressure in the brain if done right.

The stocky attacker's face went white, his knees giving way under him as he dropped.  His eyes were still open and staring for the second or so before he fell.  The immortal spun away from him more quickly than anyone ever expected of someone with his bulk.  Stormy had ducked or run further into the house, he saw; the door still stood closed, but he couldn't see her blond hair anywhere.  From the hallway he heard the sound of a muffled shot, but a second man with a gun had just come through the door and Damien dove forward to throw the man's aim off.  He rolled, coming up inside the new attacker's reach, ignoring the cuts and bruise accumulated from the wreckage.

The whuffing spit of air was the first clue to Damien that the bastard had managed to track his target and fire.  A spurt of wet heat along his leg was the second.  Pain should have been next, but the immortal had finally unleashed his temper and nothing could pass the white heat of that emotion, not even agony.

Damien heard everything, but ignored all of it.  Air rushed out of his attacker's lungs when the redhead's fist hammered in and up at his diaphragm; there was a wet crack of bone breaking as he brought his other fist down across the collarbone, snapping it instantly.  The unmistakable, heavy sound of fist hitting flesh completed the chord as he hammered the man's temple once, finished that bar of music, and spun on his good leg to find the next instrument to play.

A solidly muscled black man stood at the far side of the dining room holding a matte-black gun.  The barrel seemed impossibly small from this distance.  Damien saw Stormy appear in the kitchen doorway, another gun in her hand and pointed straight at the man in the corner.  In a grim voice unlike anything he'd heard from her before, she ordered, "Drop the gun.  Now."

"No, Ms. Storm.  Drop yours or I kill him."

Damien watched them, red hazing the edges of his vision as anger continued to burn away everything but his target.  Muscles shuddered under his skin from the conflicting orders to leap and hold still, and his breath came in harsh gasps as he tried to wrench his temper back down under control.

The gunman snapped, "I will kill you, whoever you are.  Hold still.  Drop the gun, woman, now."

 _Enough._   There was nothing but the target ahead of him -- the man filled his sight, his hearing, the tips of his fingers itched with the need to connect with that skin, tearing it, ripping it, killing the threat....

Stormy screamed in terror and fury as Damien charged the assassin.  For a moment it sounded as though only one gun had gone off instead of two... then both men wavered.

The smell of blood was everywhere and she remembered in a flash that came and left again that her period was due to start any day now.  Stormy couldn't seem to move fast enough as she compensated automatically for the pistol's kick, sighting onto the chest now exposed so perfectly because the thief/housebreaker/assassin/murdering bastard staggered back, trying to find his balance, trying to bring his gun to bear on her....  Coldly, methodically, as precisely as she ever had in competitions, Sylvana Storm fired a second shot directly into the 10-ring and put a bullet just to her right of his sternum.  He fell back against the wall, splashing more blood across the wall, the white cushions on her dining room chair, onto the pale grey carpet which had come with the house.

And then she had a corpse in her dining room ( _to match the one in your hallway_ , an ironic voice whispered in the back of her head), two unconscious housebreakers in her living room, and Damiano....  "Damn you, Damien Appesard," she snarled, crossing the room and falling to her knees beside him as time finally released her to move again.  "Don't you die on me, do you hear?  God damn it, don't die."

Blood ran down his leg, off his hands, spread wetly across his chest.  She threw her coat off and yanked her sweater over her head.  Her fingers never shook as she pressed the cotton knit firmly to his chest, worrying about his most severe wound first.  She used the free hand to wipe more blood off his lips where he was gasping for air and bringing up red.  But his eyes were finally focusing on her again even as gold skin faded to sallow from shock.

"God, Stormy, so sorry.  Your house.  So sorry."

"Screw the house.  Die on me and you'll be sorry, Damiano."  The shakes would come soon, she knew in the detached segment of her mind, when he either died or she knew he'd live.  Part of her knew what that kind of bubbling blood in a chest wound meant.  The lung was punctured.  Another two inches toward the center and it could have been his heart.  Depending on the angle, it still might be.  Without any appreciation of the irony involved, Stormy put her gun on top of the makeshift bandage to help hold it in place.

"Just hold still, all right, Appesard?  I'm going to call 911, they can have an ambulance here in eight minutes, just hold on for me, you hear me?"

"Tie them up, Stormy."

His voice was weaker, she noticed almost dispassionately. _He's dying._

"Before... they come... around."

His face went slack, curiously young in the stark lighting of the room.  Until that moment she hadn't realized that they'd even taken the fixtures off the lights looking for... whatever they had wanted.  Damien's chest simply didn't lift again after that exhalation and the not-so-young woman found herself walking into the kitchen to grab the new clothes line she'd bought just before the fall rains began.

After she had tied the hands of the two living men behind their backs -- and she couldn't bring herself to care what that did to that one bastard's collarbone -- Stormy picked up the portable phone and moved to the arm of the sofa where she could see all the bodies living and dead.  It took too little effort to dial the three numbers, and it wasn't a long wait for an answer. _I'll be grateful for that later_ , she thought absently.

"I need to report a break-in and three--"  A harsh, rattling breath stopped her words in her throat.  In her ear, she could hear the dispatcher saying something, but all of Stormy's attention was on the racking coughs tearing at Damien where he half-knelt, half-lay on the floor, propped on one elbow.

"Ma'am?  Ma'am?  Are you all right?"  The words kept coming in an insistent cadence and Stormy finally heard them that time.

"I'm fine," she said steadily.  "Do you have my address?"

"Yes, ma'am, we do, I have the police on their way now.  Are the criminals still there?  Do you believe you are still in any danger?"

"Yes," Stormy said softly, looking around the room.  "They're still here.  But no, I'm not in any danger."

The dispatcher held to her professional tone.  "Three what, ma'am?  Can I get your name, please, for the officers who are coming?"

"Two, actually," she answered distractedly as she watched Damien push up to a sitting position.  "Two alive and two corpses.  And I'm Sylvana Storm.  Tell them to just come in.  I never relocked the door."

~*~*~*~

  


Paris, France - the next morning

Joe walked in warily, not sure what to expect from this breakfast meeting.  To his pleased surprise, Duncan waved as he came in the door and pulled out a coffee mug for him.

"Morning, Joe.  The other two overslept; Aidan got in late.  Have a seat, breakfast is almost ready."

As if to punctuate the words, Joe heard the shower cut off and then the sounds of voices, not quite intelligible as words but the tone was unmistakable.  Methos was awake and not entirely pleased with the hour; Aidan was cheerful and teasing him about something.  Duncan passed the Watcher coffee, then cream and sugar as well, and poured hot water into a teapot.

Methos came out in a bathrobe, toweling his hair dry.  "Morning, Joe.  Mac, I threw Aidan your robe."

"That's fine.  She usually uses yours, that's why I left mine out for her."

"If I'd thought she'd get back this late from running, we could have set breakfast for a civilized hour, say, noon."  Methos pulled clothes out of a drawer of the bureau and called back over his shoulder, "All right if I borrow that grey sweater?"

"You mean the one I may break down and give you?  Sure.  And there's nothing wrong with mornings, Methos.  You just don't appreciate a good sunrise."  Duncan flipped the ham in the skillet one more time and called, "Aidan, get moving, you've got two minutes or we eat it all."

She came out in his robe, hair up in a towel turban, and replied cheerfully, "Don't even think it, greedy, or I won't make dinner.  I was thinking pork with apples, and onion soup."  Turning to see how that menu sounded, she saw Joe and the expression on her face changed, her usual smile fading to a much more serious expression.

He started to struggle up out of his chair, suddenly unsure he was welcome, only to feel Mac press firmly on his shoulder.  Aidan walked straight to him and caught both his hands in her own.  Raising them gently to her lips, she kissed the knuckles of each hand in turn, then leaned in and pressed a brief kiss on his lips.  In a very serious tone of voice she said, "I'm sorry, Joe; I should have trusted you.  I still have a great many questions, but will you accept my apology?"

Joe's eyes widened in surprise, then a smile spread across his face.  "Of course, Aidan.  Do I get a hug, woman?"

She wrapped her arms around him, laughing with relief.  "Ah, Gods, Joe, I was afraid you were going to stay angry.  I was a thorough-going bitch."

"Hell, woman, everyone's entitled to a bad day.  Don't worry about it.  I was afraid you were going to stay mad at me."  He pushed her into the barstool next to him and asked curiously, "What's this about stayin' out running?"

"Oh, I ran off my temper last night, but it took me twenty miles to do it.  Then I had to get home again, with no money for cab-fare...."  She sighed ruefully.  "My temper; my fault."

Methos came over in jeans and sweater, barefoot as usual, and gave Duncan a hand dishing up and handing out the ham, biscuits, and scrambled eggs.  Aidan sipped gratefully at the hot tea they handed her and asked seriously, "Joe, before I start asking about Watchers, can you answer one question for me?"

"I can try.  What've you got?"  He sipped his coffee, hearing in her voice that this was both important and not intended as a trap of any kind.

"Do you have any assistants who smoke?  I mean people who'd be watching Duncan or Adam."

"Nobody's watching Adam, the Watchers don't realize he's an immortal, yet.  And I don't have any assistants in Paris.  Why?"  His eyes narrowed, evaluating this turn in the conversation.

"Someone's been watching the barge.  I was hoping it was you or one of your people."  Aidan twisted to look at Duncan and Methos.  "We hunt."

Duncan looked back at her and said quietly, "Aidan, I won't break that rule."

She raised an eyebrow, then shook her head.  "Dhonnchaidh, did you think I'd ask you to?  I want to hunt them three on two.  We can fight them one on one, that's another matter entirely.  But I do think they deserve the terror of thinking they're to be run like foxes.  It's what they tried to do to me, and I daresay to others as well."

"Are you sure?"  He sounded thoughtful, which struck the other three as a good sign.

"How old am I?  I've seen this before.  I assure you, they were too practiced at this for it to have been any coincidence.  I doubt strongly that it's the first time they've done it, either."  She looked across the bar at him, grey eyes intense.  "Duncan, if I had any less stamina, or a smaller range of perception, I wouldn't be here now.  They very nearly caught me, and they were not chasing a strange immortal at midnight, in silence, with good intentions.  Had they meant well, they'd have called out when I fled, not given signals and pursued."

Emotions flickered across Duncan's face:  anger, shock, outrage, then determination.  He smiled finally, and it was almost as feral as Methos could be.  "Can't argue with that.  Fine.  We hunt them.  Let's check with Amanda on that signal after breakfast."

Methos rested one hand on Duncan's shoulder and murmured, "Boy Scout, you are finally beginning to reassure me that you may make it to your sixth century."

Joe stared back and forth.  "Damn, Duncan.  Haven't seen you like this before."

Aidan passed him the butter and preserves.  "Perhaps you should have, then.  So may I start asking, or do you need your coffee first?"

"Hey, if you can put up with incoherence, ask away.  My brain'll catch up to the rest of me in a while.  You may never have a better shot," Joe joked.

"All right.  I'm going to start with the important one and move from there.  I can make some guesses on how you all find us, and I can actually understand why you Watch."  Joe stared at her in surprise at that.  "How can wait; clarification and detail on why can wait.  What I want to know is, why are you telling me?  I smell a private axe being ground here, Joe Dawson.  I've no objection to being your blade, I said I trust you -- but I want to know who I'm being swung at."

Joe sat for a moment in shock, biscuit halfway to his mouth, then he put it back down and downed the contents of his coffee mug in one gulp.  "Damn, woman, when you calm down and think you should be hired out to military intelligence."

Aidan raised one eyebrow, head tilted to the side as she replied, "I have done that, Joe, during the Great War.  I was very good at it."

Duncan asked in interest, "World War One?  Which nation?"  He pushed the coffee pot to Joe absently.

That drew a smile.  "Britain, actually.  I was in Australia for part of the next one, helping their covert ops people in the Indonesian and Malaysian islands.  I think I was posing as my own niece."

Joe sipped at his second cup of coffee and said, "Aidan, I'm honestly not putting you off, but I need to explain about the Watchers before I can tell you what I'm hoping to do and why."

She nodded slowly.  "All right.  So, tell me about the Watchers.  How do you find us?"

"We found out about immortals more than a thousand years ago, and about the Game and the Gathering.  After a while we realized what kind of power was involved, and the variety of people fighting, and that half the time when you all died, no one knew who you were or remembered -- not even the victor."

"I know.  I hold the names of immortals back two and a half thousand years, and some of them not even Darius ever met or heard of."  She cut ham with great intensity and stole a second piece.  Duncan passed the scrambled eggs as well; he'd expected her to be ravenous after that midnight run.

"Yeah, well, no one should die and vanish like that.  You all don't dare get too public, I know, especially these last couple centuries.  And you don't have kids.  You have none of the types of immortality the rest of us use to escape death.  The Watchers have been keeping records in part for posterity, hokey as that sounds.  We do honestly try to stay neutral, to stay unobserved.  We don't want to influence you all or the Game."

Aidan thought about that for a while as Joe wolfed down some of the eggs.  "Joe, how well does it work?  How neutral have you all been?"

"Not neutral enough, especially this last half-century.  Let's come back to that, okay?  That's some of that axe blade showing."  Joe waited until she nodded, then continued, "So, how do we find you?  Well, we've got a lot of practice at it these days.  Sometimes we just watch immortals we already know and follow their students when they leave.  We also keep an eye out for 'old friends' who show up again and again, without aging, and put Watchers on them if we haven't heard of them before.  Of course, some of you get pretty wide notoriety when you first die, like the two MacLeods did."

Aidan nodded thoughtfully.  "I can see that."

"Basically, we find most of them through association with known immortals.  What I haven't figured out, young lady, is why we never knew about you."

That drew an interested look from Aidan.  "You didn't?  I know I haven't had any spies on me since I got out of that business fifty years ago.  I'm rather... protective of my privacy."

Joe nodded ruefully.  "I figured that out last night, trust me.  No, you're nowhere in our databases."

Methos said calmly, "Oh, she is, but they aren't linked and no one thinks she's an immortal."

Aidan blinked, considered that statement, and then overrode Joe.  "Don't they?  How do you--"

"What do you mean she--"  Joe paused, then looked at Aidan to see who was going to handle this.  She waved one hand at Joe, ceding precedence, and went back to demolishing breakfast.  "Okay, Methos, what do you mean 'they' aren't linked?  Who doesn't think she's immortal?"

Methos smirked his irritating half-smile and answered, "Oh, something like six dozen chronicles over eight hundred years.  And about eight dozen names she's used down those years."

Aidan looked up in interest at that.  "Really?  Are you sure it was me and not some of the others?"  Methos raised one eyebrow and she grinned.  "Oh, quit playing 'lord of all you survey and master of all knowledge.'  It's very irritating, Magister."

"I want to see you stop him, Aidan," Duncan commented.

"Oh, I assure you, Dhonnchaidh, it can be done," she replied, almost purring.  "Are you going to behave, Methos?"

He tilted his head, studying her.  "And what were you going to do if I don't?"

"Make you live up to it," she replied calmly.

To the surprise of the other two, Methos flushed slightly and then muttered, "All right, Edana.  I'll quit."

Joe swallowed a grin and went back to the subject.  "Anyway, no, we don't have records on you.  That we know about," he qualified hastily, grinning openly at Methos now.  "Of course, it wouldn't surprise me to hear Methos made sure of that, since he set up the database."

Aidan dropped her tea mug.

Duncan grabbed hastily for a towel as Joe ducked pottery shards.  Aidan looked down at the mess on her plate and the table and almost absently pulled a shard of clay out of her arm, contemplating her own blood with a detached calm.  Methos reached over and dusted a few pieces off of Joe, then pulled two more out of the robe Aidan wore.  "Joe, you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Methos."  He watched the Irish woman carefully.  "Aidan...."

"I'm all right, Joe."  She stood up and took the plate to the sink and began to scrape food, tea, and pottery pieces into the garbage.  Very calmly she said, "Methos, will you get me another mug of tea, please?"

Duncan passed her the towel to wring out into the sink and she rinsed the blood out of the sleeve of the robe while she was at it.  Methos made no comment as he poured her another serving of tea.

"Give me a second to pull on something dry, would you?"  Aidan moved to the other end of the barge and began to change, oblivious to the appreciative looks from all three men.  "Methos, what were you doing setting up their databases?  Other than hiding yourself, that is."

"And you, thank you very much," he replied, glad to see she had leashed her temper more closely this morning.  "I was the head Methos researcher for ten years.  Just retired a year or so ago.  Nearly outsmarted myself; they weren't happy about accepting my resignation."

"Ah.  Read too much, or became indispensable?"  Aidan spread the hair towel out to dry and hung up Mac's robe, then pulled on flannel-lined jeans and a sword harness.

"A bit of both.  They still come ask me for research advice or gossip with me at the bookstore," he replied.  "Not as much now that rumors are going around that I'm sleeping with the beautiful one, there," and he indicated Duncan.

Joe commented dryly, "Get a room, you three.  Or wait 'til I get back out, all right?  I have a perfectly good imagination, I don't need reality, too."

Aidan chuckled and walked back while pulling on a ratty Irish fisherman's sweater.  "It's all right, Joe, he's just annoyed that I embarrassed him so he's taking it out on Duncan."

She grinned as Duncan neatly stole the last biscuit off Methos' plate and moved the platter out of the way with his other hand.  Methos reached for the rest of his breakfast and swore in Assyrian when it wasn't where he expected, while the other three maintained bland expressions.

Joe asked with great interest, "What was that?"

Aidan calmly replied, "A commentary on my parentage and Duncan's sexual preferences.  But are you sure you had that possessive right, Methos?"

He glared at her.  "I taught the language to you, you weren't in Ashur."

"As you say, Magister," she replied in sweetly submissive tones that made Methos flush again and brought Duncan's head around in surprise.

"Damn it, Aidan, I'm going to put you over my knee if you keep this up!"

" _Domine_ , I thought your friend wished us to let him leave first?" she queried, glancing up through her eyelashes at him.  As Joe stared, agog, she stood from her chair and moved to kneel in front of Methos, back very straight, hands on spread thighs, chin up but eyes focused just below the oldest immortal's throat.  Aidan licked her lips slowly, deliberately sensual.

Duncan couldn't take his eyes off the scene, torn between howls of laughter at the look on Methos' face and a sudden urge to drag Aidan off to bed.  Beside him he heard Joe choke as he tried to maintain some composure in the face of this completely unexpected facet of the Irish woman's character.

Methos, caught halfway between overwhelming desire and complete aggravation, decided to raise her bluff.  Switching  to Greek, he said, "Edana, if you don't get up off that floor and quit pretending to be a slave, I'm going to hold you to it for the rest of the day.  I guarantee it will add volumes to Duncan's education if I do."  The iron tone of his voice carried an unmistakable threat or guarantee, depending on her perspective.

Aidan's eyes widened at that and she looked up at him in shock.  In English she started, "You--"  Abruptly she shifted to Greek, deciding this one Joe didn't need to hear.  "You're serious, aren't you?"

"You have ten seconds.  Make up your mind."

Calculations spun through her head, as she continued to look up at him, slightly flushed and eyes dilating with surprise and arousal.  From his body language, Aidan had no doubt Methos would do exactly what he was threatening.  "Will you take a rain check for after we hunt?"

"No.  Decide.  From now until tomorrow dawn, starting now, or get up."

There was no question in her mind; the hunt for the other immortals had to come first.  Aidan pushed up to her feet immediately, cursing in Gaelic.  Duncan, who had understood the names in that previous conversation and almost nothing else, raised an eyebrow at some of her comments now.  Methos set his plate and mug out of the way and yanked her into his arms, pressing her back against the bar and silencing her with a kiss that bent her over his arm and stole her breath.  He let go just as abruptly and sat Aidan back on her own stool.  Joe and Duncan were still staring, too surprised to pretend politely that nothing had happened.

Aidan rubbed at the corner of her mouth with one hand, reining in suddenly rampaging hormones.  In a shaky voice she said, "Right.  Where were we?  Umm, Watchers...."

Joe hid a grin behind one hand and made mental notes for his private journal.  _Always interesting to watch three alphas settling out who's in charge at any given moment._ Out of charity, though, he replied, "We were talking about the databases."

"Oh.  Right.  So.  You all have me somewhere in several chronicles, but as a mortal under my various names."  She reached absently for her tea, and Duncan handed her the honey, grinning at her distraction.  Aidan growled, "Don't say it, MacLeod."

"Wouldn't say a word, alanna," he replied, still grinning.  Looking at Methos he commented, "So when are you two going to teach me Greek?  I'd like to follow some of these conversations."

Aidan muttered, "If I wanted you to follow it, it would be in Gaelic."

Methos smiled wickedly and said, "I'll tell you later, MacLeod.  And, yes, Aidan, you're in there under most of your names, but you never stayed around long enough for anyone to decide you were immortal.  A few times you had them suspicious, but since you haven't repeated names yet...."  Methos shrugged.

Joe meanwhile was staring at Methos in incredulity.  "Couldn't you have told me this, Methos?"

"Gods, no, Joe.  You didn't want her in the Chronicles, and if you started looking under her various names you might have inspired someone else to put the pieces together.  Why don't you just ask her for her names?"

Aidan glared at him.  "You don't have to talk about me in the third person."

Duncan glanced up, attention caught by an unexpected edge in her voice.  He picked up his coffee mug and plate, taking them to the sink.  Turning back to the conversation, he leaned against the bar behind her, one hand resting casually on her shoulder and rubbing.

Methos meanwhile had turned to study her more closely.  He watched her through narrowed eyes, not saying anything, until Aidan finally looked down and away, refusing to meet his gaze.  That brought a raised eyebrow and then a frown, but Methos picked the conversation back up from where they had dropped it, much to Joe's relief.

"Yes, Joe, sometime one of us will help you find most of them.  I can't always remember all of her names; I'm not sure you can either, Aidan."  He deliberately addressed her rather than use the third person and watched as she nodded without lifting her gaze from her hands.  "But we'll want to spread the search out over a few years.  Maybe I can misdirect them onto one of the other female immortals and we can do it that way...."  Methos had a speculative look on his face for a moment.

Aidan changed the topic, still rather distracted or subdued, Joe wasn't sure which.  "Joe, what exactly do you all record about immortals?  I'm sorry, I'm not going to believe that you do detail only.  I find the idea of a thousand years of 'oatmeal for breakfast, venison for lunch, took X's head at 4:30, skipped dinner' ludicrous."

Joe cracked up at the deliberately dry tone of voice during that recital, and even Methos had a grin twitching one corner of his mouth.  Duncan, who was still idly rubbing her shoulders, chuckled.  "She has a point there."

"Oh, yeah.  God, Aidan, warn me when you're going to do that."  Joe chortled again, then continued, "Yeah, we put more in than the bare details.  Some of the Watchers will try to correlate back to known information; some speculate on possible motives.  A few do honestly put in nothing but detail, down to the most trivial minutiae, but we try to get them away from field duty as soon as we catch them at it.  The best of us are a lot like historians; we record, then we hypothesize from data, but we admit we're just theorizing.  Every so often, say every ten or twenty years, we'll try to summarize or synopsize, just for convenience of research later."

"Now that I believe," Aidan replied, nodding.  "Joe, how much strain is it putting on you to be doing private journals and Watcher journals with two different categories of entries?"

Joe glared at her over his mug.  "Now, look, Aidan, I've already had this talk with Mac.  Some things are worth the extra trouble.  Having you all as friends is on the list.  You let me worry about that."

"As you will, Joe, but I needed to ask.  I simply couldn't see you settling for doing a shoddy job.  So, from another direction on this.  Do you have help Watching Duncan?  Do most Watchers have help with their subjects, to be more precise?  And how do you identify Watchers, or recruit new ones?"

"No, Aidan, I don't think you think I'm a cripple," Joe commented.  She blushed, then gave a rueful twist of her lips as he caught her slight correction.  "Yeah, usually there's more than one of us to a person, unless it's someone who stayed in one place most of the time, like Darius or Adrianna.  We could be fairly sure we wouldn't miss much with them.  What happens is you have one primary Watcher and a couple secondary Watchers who help out, give the info to the primary and he or she is responsible for keeping the Chronicle.  Hell, I think we have something like six on Amanda, partly because she moves around so much she wears 'em out and partly because we miss too much on her if we don't have someone constantly keeping an eye on her.  Holes in that woman's records you could drive Panzer tanks through."

Aidan giggled despite herself at that.  Joe commented, "As for how we identify Watchers..." and he sighed, knowing he was probably going to regret this, "...most of us have this tattoo."  He turned up his left wrist and pushed back the sweater to show her a pair of concentric blue circles, thin lines with blue dots at regular intervals within the first ring and what looked like a stylized blue ram's horn design in the center circle, or maybe it was a curving 'v'.

"Sometimes we wear it as jewelry instead, when a tattoo isn't practical for some reason.  I've seen amulets and signet rings, usually sapphires if it's a ring.  As for recruiting, sometimes we'll take family members, once they're adults.  Sometimes people just find out about immortality and we try to bring 'em in as Watchers to help preserve the secret.  We do actually help keep you all under cover, so to speak."

Aidan nodded thoughtfully.  "That would explain a few things I've observed," she commented.  "Is there a central area where you all keep all the records?  How do you preserve the information?"

"Yeah, actually there is.  The headquarters for both the European Watchers and for the world repository of Chronicles is outside Lyon.  And we always have people recopying and translating old Chronicles.  Then this one," and he jerked a thumb at Methos, "got the bright idea of doing a database.  We're still not sure that was a good idea, and we destroyed the portable copies of the disc."

Methos, who knew better, said nothing.  His personal back-up disc, complete with the backdoor codes into the Watcher systems, was no one else's business but his own.

"Last questions for a while then, Joe.  You spoke of oaths and a Tribunal.  I assume you're not supposed to talk to us.  What will they do to you, or do they know already and you're ignoring their reaction?  How do you all keep us from killing you, for that matter?  And do you have long-range plans for what to do if someone like Sinan ibn Muhammad or Owen Rhys-Tewdor wins the Prize?"

Duncan growled in his throat at the idea.

"Since you ask, no, we don't have long-range plans for that.  Not that I know about, and I'm the head of the Western North America Region, so I would hope they'd tell me.  In answer to your other questions, we don't always escape getting killed by some of you, especially the more paranoid immortals.  That's part of why the Tribunal is slowly starting to forgive me for talking to Mac.  The immortals he's told about the Watchers have gotten even more careful about...."  Joe paused trying to decide how to put it, and Duncan stuck in his two cents worth.

"Amanda and Richie are much more careful about keeping mortals and civilians out of the line of fire.  I plan to tell Connor at Christmas, but I haven't told many of us.  I'm not sure who else knows.  Some of the hotheads would start killing Watchers out of hand."

Aidan's voice came out from behind the wet hair she was carefully detangling -- mostly to conceal her face, Methos suspected.  "There were quite a few years when I would have killed anyone I caught spying on me, including the last fifty or so.  Mind, I might have found out why they were spying first -- but I might not have, either."  Her voice held no apology for that, and Joe couldn't say he was surprised.  From what he'd seen, when Aidan drew a line, she guarded it with sharp-edged steel.

"You ready for this axe, or do you want a couple of days to think about this?"

The comb paused in its steady motions through the ends of her hair, and she flipped the wet strands back out of the way.  "Some time for thought wouldn't be a bad idea, Joseph.  Let me work this through, will you?  This has been something of a shock.  I'm going to have to think about what to do, how to handle this.  I don't think I can associate with Dhonnchaidh and stay hidden from you lot.  I don't plan to give him up," and she wrapped one hand around his on her shoulder to reassure Duncan, "and even if I did, 'Adam' isn't going to, either."

Methos took the comb away and caught her other hand.  "No, I'm not.  We're going to have to do something about that, too, eventually.  Adam Pierson may have to become Duncan MacLeod's newest student, I think."

Duncan choked behind them and sputtered, "Do I get any say in this?"

Aidan gleefully said, "Oh, no, **I** get to train you, not Dhonnchaidh.  What's that saying out of the Christian Bible?  'Vengeance is mine,' or some such?"

Methos shook them both.  "Behave, you two, and be serious for once.  We're going to have to do something eventually.  We need to start thinking about it now."

Joe shook his head and said, "When you decide how you want to handle it, Adam, let me know and I'll see if I can think of any way to help.  Let me know, okay?"

"You're a good friend, Joe.  We'll try to keep you out of trouble and your oaths mostly intact."  Aidan smiled at him as she said it.

"Yeah, well, I'm good enough friend to tell you honestly that I'm going back to bed for a couple hours, young lady.  This is not my time of day, and I'm not as young as some."  He grinned at her to show there was no offense in the statement.  Aidan just laughed at him.

"Mmm-hmm.  We'll see.  Oh, I've been requested to bring you three through a jazz club in St. Germaine sometime soon; we'll have to see if you can stay awake to dance with the proprietress one night, Joe.  Her name's Janette; she's the daughter of a friend of mine."

Behind and beside her, Aidan felt both Duncan and Methos react to that one.  Duncan's hand tightened around hers for a second, and Methos stiffened against her.  She turned to stare at both of them.  "What did I say?  She knows you two, at least.  I didn't think she knew Joe."

"He really is a friend of yours?"  Duncan forced the words out.

Aidan's glance flickered back and forth between the two of them, but she waited for Methos to say whatever had just settled into place in his mind.  She knew that look on his face.

"Well, Sun-child.  Could you have warned us about some minor details?"  Sarcasm oozed out of his voice and caught her only slightly off-guard.

"What in particular did I miss?"  She paused then said, "Joe, how is your tolerance for severe shocks?"

"Not too damn good in the morning, is one coming?"

Aidan glanced back and forth between her two lovers then said thoughtfully, "Why don't you go get some more sleep and let the three of us iron this out without worrying about civilian casualties, so to speak?  I'll tell you everything you need to know before it's all over.  Certainly before Connor's Christmas party.  You are going, aren't you?"

Joe stared at her.  "Connor's party?  Woman, that thing is legendary for the immortals at it.  You're going?"

"Of course, and you're invited this year; I asked.  The invitations just aren't out yet, won't be for another week or so.  Are you going?"  From the Watcher's reaction, Aidan would have thought she had just handed him Jimi Hendrix' guitar, or maybe B.B. King's Lucille.

"Hell, yeah, I'm going, woman.  Hot damn, this will be something to see."

Duncan commented dryly, "And the booze is good, too."

Methos stood up and said, "Joe, go get some more sleep and start thinking about what to wear for the party, all right?  We need to talk to Aidan, I think."

Joe shook his head and stood up; saying, "Yeah, I'll do that.  Look, you two, don't gang up on her too badly, all right?  Two fights in two days is one too many."  He looked at all three of them, then hugged Aidan again.  "Nice to be back on speaking terms with you again.  I'll talk with you three later."

He walked across the barge and up the stairs to the door, cane thumping a slightly off-time accompaniment to his steps on the barge floor.  After he was gone, Aidan turned to the other two and said, "Let me at least curl up on the couch before you start, hmm?"

Methos glared at her.  "Daughter of an old friend?  Did you forget to tell us you took two heads in Toronto?  In a vampire's bar?"

Aidan stared at him in shock.  "No, it just didn't come up, Methos.  When did you meet LaCroix?  Or was it Janette?"

Duncan pulled her off the bar stool and pushed her gently toward the couch.  "Go sit down.  This one we're going to be civilized about," and he gave Methos a pointed look.  "And we met both of them.  Could you at least have told me you gave a pre-immortal policeman my name and phone-number?"

"Policewoman, Duncan," Aidan answered as she sat down.  "And I should have, no question of that.  I got a bit distracted.  I am profoundly sorry not to have told you."

"Distracted?  You gave out names and phone numbers for three immortals -- no, four, I forgot it was Gina and Robert -- and you forgot to tell them?  Edana, what were you thinking about?"  Methos snarled it at her.

"I was thinking about witch hunts and pogroms, Methos!  I was thinking about information files and inheritance records, names, pictures and bank accounts proving over three dozen immortals to be immortal that I had to get from Toronto to Seacouver and decipher.  I'm still trying to sort out ways to defend us against such investigations, but Stengel could have sent the CIA after a good forty of us.  I was a little bloody fucking distracted!"

Duncan stepped between the two of them and roared, "Stop!"  He glared back and forth between them.  "Methos, my name was on the list, not Adam Pierson.  Let me get annoyed with her over this, not you.  What the hell has come over the two of you?  You're snapping at each other like children, not like friends of two thousand years and some."

Aidan looked down at her hands and said quietly, "You're right.  I'm sorry."

Methos snapped at her, "So quit acting like a bloody slave and prove it."

That brought her head up with a snap and Aidan cried out, "I'm trying, damn it!  Will you quit pressing?  The more you try to dominate me, the harder it gets.  It's as much your fault as mine, Magister!"

Duncan bellowed "Will you both be silent a minute!"  He turned as Methos drew air and snarled, "Not a word out of you, I mean it."  Turning back to Aidan he watched for a second to see if she was going to behave and decided she wasn't going to make a noise, much less a word.

Finally he said, "Up, both of you.  Go sit on the bed, one in each corner.  I do not care which corners, but opposite sides.  Go."

Aidan moved.  Methos thought about it, considered the lapse into brogue and the light in Duncan's eyes and decided to do as he said this time.  They ended up with Methos sprawled on the left side near the wall, pillows behind his back and legs out across the bed.  Aidan had tucked herself into a little ball on the opposite side near the foot of the bed, feet pulled under her legs and her eyes down on the comforter.  Duncan settled cross-legged on the other side of the headboard, in between the two of them so as not to take sides on this.  Very carefully, he thinned down the link between himself and Methos, not wanting to give his male lover an advantage over Aidan.

The Scot studied both of them, considering the body language more than anything else as he wasn't sure where some of the undercurrents in that conversation had come from.  He drew several conclusions very rapidly.  Methos had, for once, let all of his alpha male tendencies out.  Aidan didn't seem to have any will to argue with them.  Last and not least, Methos could say he was angry about that, but his body language didn't agree with the statement -- he was still pushing at her, and it was working.

"All right, then.  Ground rules.  One person talks at a time, when I say you can.  You answer what I'm asking and that's it, hear me?  No extraneous comments, no snipes or digs."  Duncan stared at both of them to be sure it sank in, then nodded once.

"I'm going to back up to where I think this started.  Methos, what were you two discussing in Greek earlier?  When Aidan was on her knees?"

"I remember where she was, Duncan."

"I said no sniping, Methos.  Just answer the question."  He noted the use of his first name and filed it away for later questions, when they were all calmer.

"She was acting like a slave, since she claimed I was acting like a master.  I told Edana if she didn't quit, she was going to be a slave until dawn tomorrow.  I thought it would serve her right for pushing me on it, and that you might find it an interesting experience."  He looked at the Scot thoughtfully, head tilted slightly as he considered the matter.  "I know you've been with prostitutes, but somehow I don't think you've ever patronized a pleasure slave.  Doesn't seem your usual style."

Duncan didn't flush; this was too serious for his feelings to be allowed reign just now.  Thinking about it, though, Methos had stuck to the subject.  The subject had included more than the younger man had expected, that was all.

"Aidan, your side of it?  The same conversation only, please."

"As he said," she replied quietly.  "That's what he threatened.  At first I thought he was joking, then I knew he wasn't.  We need to go hunt those two immortals, so I stopped making mischief."

Duncan considered her reply very carefully, then asked carefully, "If we didn't have them to deal with, what would you have answered?"

Without looking up, Aidan murmured, "I'd have probably said yes.  And yes, I'm aware it's an idiot thing to do; I don't know what I was thinking."

Methos started to say something and Duncan swatted him on one leg none too gently.  "Not a word, Methos.  I didn't ask you."

Duncan waited until silence fell again, then studied them again, trying to decide what had brought all of this to a head.  They had both been relatively under control, even after that, until the subject changed to the vampires:  LaCroix and Janette.  At that point, Methos' temper had gone up and so had Aidan's.  When was the last time she had bothered to use standard profanity to curse?  Formal, ornate maledictions were more her style.

"Edana."  The younger man's use of her birth name drew her eyes to his face in surprise as Duncan had known it would.  "I know that LaCroix was one of your patrons when you were a slave in Rome.  I know you saw him in June, when you were in Toronto.  Does he have anything to do with your reaction?"

Aidan stayed silent for so long that Methos drew breath to say something, only to subside under a glare from Duncan.  The Scot deliberately roughened his tone, putting some bite into it as he said, "Answer the question.  Yes or no, Edana, is that part of the problem?"

"Yes."  She dragged the word out, not looking at either of them.  The wall breached, it became easier to continue.  "I think so.  Dealing with vampires is... stressful.  Even the friendly ones like Janette.  And LaCroix, the memories he calls up, the control it takes not to... give in to him, submit...."  She shuddered convulsively, throwing strands of damp hair over her shoulders to draw dark lines over creamy wool.

"I don't know what he told you, or when....  He was one of my regulars.  He liked the fact that I wouldn't die on him, not permanently.  And they find immortal blood... intoxicating.  Almost addictive.  Brandy-blood full of the essence of centuries of living, he said."

Both of the men realized she was still shaking, hands gripping the comforter and arms planted firmly at her side rather than wrapped around herself for warmth.  Methos started to move and Duncan shook his head once, motioning the older immortal back into his corner.

"All right.  I can understand what's brought this on with you, then--"

Aidan cut across his words in a soft voice that still silenced him.  "... I had to act the slave again in June.  It hasn't been centuries, Duncan; it's been weeks."

Methos grimly asked, "Why?"

"Two immortals attacked me simultaneously in the Raven while I was talking to him.  LaCroix is Master of Toronto, Methos.  I had to stop them before they broke the truce between our kinds.  He had to pull his fledglings off while I took the corpses outside.  I ended up taking both heads at once and they were partners, had been for fifty years or so.  They fought me, Methos, I wasn't....  I don't know if I'd have won, and Nick was there to investigate, and Lucius was pushing...."  Aidan stopped to take a deep breath, knowing she was babbling but not sure how to explain.

"Aidan.  Why did you have to?  And was it with LaCroix?"  Duncan decided to see if direct questions would help.

"Because I was losing control against their combined quickenings, Dhonnchaidh.  Neither of them was old enough to remember Latin, neither had the right... temperament to endure submission.  LaCroix suggested it, but I agreed to it."  She sighed very quietly.  "Well, he was holding me four inches off the ground at the time, but I agreed.  And he was right, it worked.  They could fight me.  They couldn't fight what he did or the fact that I could... enjoy it."

"You told me once that you can take pleasure from agony.  I was hoping you were joking," Duncan said.

"No, I wasn't.  The endorphins, the adrenaline -- vampires like the flavor it gives the blood, the rush of emotion.  Most vampires, the ones who survive for any length of time, are control freaks.  In part, what Lucius did to me in Rome was the price I paid for him keeping my secret.  And in part, he wanted to see what I could take."  Aidan glanced up, grey eyes huge in that pale face.

"What was I going to do, Methos?  Tell Gracchus he was a vampire when I had no holes in my neck, no visible wounds?  Gracchus would have beaten me raw for lying about a customer and when I healed in front of him and suddenly his pleasure slave was no longer something human...."  She shuddered again.  "That or if he had believed me, he'd have brought in priests and centurions to deal with me as contaminated and Lucius as a vampire.  All that would have done was infuriate someone who could rip my arms off."

"There was nothing you could have done, Edana.  Gracchus didn't have the wit to see death in Alex's eyes, much less in LaCroix's.  Why didn't you tell either of us about this?"  Methos sounded both comforting and stern, and Duncan flashed back for a moment on his father delivering a lecture to his young heir.

Aidan sounded wretched as she replied, "Because I enjoyed it, Methos.  I know they're conditioned reflexes, that it's something that Lucius etched into my nerve endings and behavior.  But do you think I wanted to tell you -- my teacher, my lovers -- that I liked being a slave again, even for one night?"

Duncan stared. _She liked....  Never mind, we can come back to that.  Time to turn the attention to Methos and let her start getting some composure back._ "Methos, what set you off, then?  Just reaction to Aidan, or what?"

Methos shifted his gaze to Duncan, aware of what the younger man was doing but willing to go along with it.  "Reaction to her primarily.  She does it very well, Highlander, and it's been a very long time.  And you know bloody well I find Edana arousing, you've been sharing a bed with both of us for a month now."

"Yeah, I have, and I know she enjoys having her hands pinned, or being tied down.  So do you, so do I.  So what?  This was more extreme than that, and we all know it.  I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd made some crack about her cleaning the floor, or shining your shoes or something, but you went straight to sex.  Why?"

The older immortal thought about that, surprised to realize that the Highlander was right.  Under more normal circumstances, he might have teased her about '... as long as you're down there' but it might well not have gone to sex, despite her deliberately provocative positioning.  He'd been Adam Pierson for the last fifteen years, and this wasn't really Adam's--

 _No, it wasn't something Adam would do, but Methos, Death of the Four Horsemen_ \-- _now that's a different matter, isn't it?_   Methos shook his head, a bitter smile on his face.

"I didn't let my time with Kronos affect you when I trained you, Edana.  Instead, I blow it two millennia later at one of the few times you're vulnerable to it."  He shook his head, angry with himself and with his past for blowing up in his face and theirs.

Aidan glanced up and replied, "The entire time you trained me, Methos, you knew it could be a problem, so you fought it.  This time you weren't expecting it.  You haven't hurt me with it; quit kicking yourself."

"Says the woman who's already so far into a slave's mindset she's probably soaking wet," Methos replied acidly, then flinched even before Duncan cuffed him hard on one shoulder.

Duncan turned and glared at him.  "Says the man who offered to let her do it and is so far into a master's mindset he's still pushing her buttons.  Why else are you sprawled across the bed partway into her space if not to see what she'll do?"

"I know, I know.  Edana, that was uncalled for.  I'm sorry."  Methos even sounded it, but he didn't draw his legs back.

Aidan gave him a rueful smile and commented, "Oh, I don't know, teacher mine, it was pretty accurate.  No point in denying reality.  The question becomes, what do you two want to do about this whole mess?  Gods, I'm glad Joe left before now.  I have enough trouble discussing this with you, and I sleep with both of you."

Duncan looked back and forth between them.  "Methos?  Opinions?"

"You're asking me, Highlander?  Are you mad?  I know what I want."

"Yes, well, **I** want you to use your brain instead of the other head.  You're the tricky, manipulative one -- start thinking about how to manipulate both of you back to your normal mental state.  We have to do something, or both of you will keep flashing back on old memories at potentially lethal moments.  We have two immortals in town who are hunting at least one of us, remember?"

He watched that sink in and nodded.  "Aidan?  What do you think?  Can you think, or are you stuck on just reacting?"

" 'Just reacting' is one of the addictive aspects of being a slave," Aidan replied with more deference in her voice than MacLeod was used to hearing.  "But I can still think.  I'm working on it."

Duncan waited, turning the problem over himself.  One thought kept coming back to him; maybe he should let the two of them go ahead and play out this whole master/slave relationship and get it out of their systems.  God knew, they'd done it once before with Edana in control and Methos taking orders.  What worried Duncan was the idea that it might continue to be a problem.

No, this wasn't normal behavior for either of them.  Methos went in for indirect control, Aidan for self-control.  The trick to this, then, would be ensuring it left some feeling of closure as the latest psycho-babble liked to put it.  To that end, he asked, "Methos, why dawn tomorrow?"

The older immortal brought his attention back from wherever it had been and replied, "What?"

"When you offered to make her a slave, why did you set a stopping point of dawn tomorrow?"

Methos shrugged, then said more thoughtfully, "It seemed appropriate.  Most contracts, especially in those days, ended at sunset or midnight, sunrise or midday.  We didn't have all these fancy timepieces then; time was more flexible."  He eyed Duncan speculatively and asked, "Where are you going with this, MacLeod?"

Aidan said quietly, "He's thinking it might not be a bad idea for us to lock the doors and get this over with.  I think."

"Both of you are interested or it never would have come up.  It's not normal behavior for either of you anymore, if it ever was, so I'm not worried that you would get locked into these mindsets permanently.  And both of you are old enough to consider sunrise a natural end to the bargain.  But the only way I let you do this is if I stay here to keep it from getting too far out of hand.  I'm not losing either of you to repercussions from today."  Duncan watched both of them carefully, tension in every line of his body as he threw the solution out for consideration.

Simultaneously Aidan and Methos said, "You may not want to see me like this...."  Aidan's hesitance blended very oddly with the harshness of Methos' voice.  The oldest immortal studied his one-time student for a moment and then all three immortals managed to smile.

"All right, we all think this is a good idea -- well, the best we have," Methos decided.  "Fine.  We do it.  Mac, have you ever done anything like this?"

Duncan, finally freed of having to be the one to hold the three-way relationship together for all their sakes, let go his hold on his own emotions.  The flush on his face answered that question for the other two.  Methos caught traces of embarrassment, intrigue, and arousal across the reestablished link.  Aidan, already moving into the mindset of a slave, glanced down demurely rather than laugh at him.

Methos went on brusquely, "Well, I don't think you want to try this from her point of view, so I guess you get to learn a few of the finer points of the master's side of the equation."  In a very speculative tone of voice he went on, "Although sometime we ought to have you try the slave's side.  It's an enlightening experience."

Duncan's eyes widened and he glared indignantly at the older immortal for a second, until he realized the implication behind that statement.  Methos had just flatly said he'd been a slave before.  Somehow, the Scot didn't think that his relationship with Hamza had counted.  Hamza had treated him as an honored guest who'd had the misfortune to be captured; that wasn't at all what Methos had experienced himself or intended for Aidan.

The oldest immortal watched the thoughts fly across his younger lover's face and smiled wickedly.  "Some other time, MacLeod.  I think we'll have our hands full putting her through her paces.  Speaking of which...."  He tilted his head, considering the woman curled at the bottom of the bed.

"Right, then.  Ground rules, so that there are no problems later.  We lock all doors, all windows; pull all the shades.  Let our unknown observers wonder what the hell's going on.  They don't have enough imagination to think of it anyway, from what Damien said about that little bitch.  As for other rules--  Aidan.  Look at me.  Come here."

She glanced up, clearly startled, then moved across the bed on her hands and knees.  The easy sensuality in her movements took Duncan's breath away for a moment.  When he could breathe again, Aidan had settled herself on her knees between Methos' spread legs.  The older man ran a hand down her cheek, one finger trailing down her throat.  She didn't say anything, though, which surprised the Scot.

"Give me the name of a slave you knew in Rome, one you liked."  Methos didn't leave her any room to evade the question, either in tone of voice or physically as his hand wrapped around the back of her neck.

"Gemma."  Her voice was very soft, almost diffident in its tones, and Duncan marveled in the back of his mind at the changes in Aidan's personality.  The changes in Methos surprised him almost as much.  The quiet, sardonic, almost self-effacing personality of Adam Pierson was completely gone.  The assured man snapping orders in the certainty they would be obeyed acted nothing like the former Researcher from the Watchers.

Through their link, Methos could almost feel the gears turning in Duncan's head, but he'd deal with that in a second.  "Fine.  You answer to that name, or slave, or hey, you, or whatever, until dawn tomorrow.  Aidan is someone else. Edana is someone else.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."  That reply came immediately, no hesitance to it at all.

"Good.  Until dawn, you call us master, or sir.  Nothing else.  Do you understand that?"

"Yes, master."

"Very good.  You will obey any order we give, immediately.  If you're confused, ask.  Otherwise we'll assume you understand what's expected and you will do it.  One way or another.  Last time.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, master."  Her eyes were still down, but neither man thought she was ignoring Methos' instructions.

"Good girl.  Go lock up the barge, and pull all the shades.  When you're done, clean up what's left of breakfast.  Move."  Methos waited until she was on her way to the door, then turned to Duncan.

"All right, what do you need to ask?  Are you going to be all right with this, Highlander?  She'll be too easily confused by mixed signals right now.  If you don't know what you want, we're all going to have problems."

Duncan exhaled and then shook his head a little, trying to throw off some of the unreal feeling to all this.  "God, Methos...."

"No."  The harsh intensity of Methos' voice surprised Duncan.  "Don't use that name where she can hear it.  When this is done tomorrow, we don't need names associated with the memories.  That's why I made her answer to another one and why she won't be calling us by any name at all."  Gold-green eyes pinned Duncan against the wall as surely as that strong body could have.  "Are you going to be all right with this?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine."  Humor warmed his voice for a moment and the younger man commented, "But somehow I don't think saying 'hey, you' is going to quite match the mood you had in mind.  So what do I call you?"

Methos had been smiling at his quick irreverence, but some thought made the smile fade minutely.  "Brother will work just fine, unless you object."

"Is that going to be a problem for you?"  Duncan watched him and reached out across their link, deliberately trying to feel what this would do to his friend.  He knew what the Horsemen had called each other, and the other point of this whole master/slave scenario was to ease Methos' memories of them.

"No, it would be one of the best things I could bring out of this.  It would be good to have that word clean in my mind again."

Duncan wrapped one hand around Methos' forearm and felt the grip returned.  "Then so be it, brother."

For a moment they sat there as the barge grew darker.  Aidan... no, Duncan corrected in his mind, Gemma was closing all the shutters.  Methos shrugged and said, "Let's get some candles lit at least.  No point moving around in total darkness."

Duncan nodded and said, "I'll build the fire up."

"Good idea.  No sense having her too cold when we drag her to bed."

The Scot raised an eyebrow at that and Methos chuckled.  "Trust me, brother.  The first thing we do when the kitchen's clean is get her clothes off.  We work her ragged, then we take her to bed.  She won't forgive us if we don't, and neither will you.  A well-trained pleasure slave is an experience.  Whether she liked it or not, Gemma was very well trained; LaCroix wouldn't have tolerated anything else.  Go get the fire, brother, and let me deal with this."

The fire had been built up and all the candles lit before Duncan realized he'd responded without thinking.  The calm command had moved the younger man before he even noticed it.  The Scot ruefully decided this day ought to give him some very different viewpoints on both his lovers.  When he turned away from the stove, Methos was setting some oil and towels by the bed.

The older man saw him watching and waved him over.  "While she's still busy, there's one other matter to discuss.  This is going to be one of the things you're going to have a problem with I suspect.  At least once, she's going to contest an order.  What will you do then?"

Duncan reached out across their link and found a certain amount of anticipation, a good bit of arousal, and a strength of will that surprised him a little.  But there was none of the destructiveness he'd felt when he took Kronos' quickening.  Methos meant to make Gemma bend under his strength, but he didn't plan to break her.  With that reassurance, the younger man replied, "I don't know.  Are you sure that she'll do it?"

"With a new set of masters?  Oh, yes.  They always have to check the boundaries, usually fairly cautiously, but she'll check.  What are you going to do?  She's more likely to test you than me."

That got an amused smile.  "Why me?  You're the expert, you tell me."

Methos chuckled at that.  "That's why.  I know how to control a slave, and I give off half a hundred small signals that say so loud and clear.  You don't, and you don't.  Expert opinion?  As soon as she contests you, no matter how trivial you think it is, give her one warning.  If she doesn't correct the matter immediately, warm up whatever part of her is nearest.  If she's been particularly difficult, slap her.  Remember, the face is much more personal than the body.  A dozen blows to the back will not cow a slave the way one good backhand across the mouth will.  When you hit the face, they know you see them, not some impersonal servant."

The startled look on Duncan's face caught his attention and Methos raised an eyebrow.  "All right, brother?"

"I will be.  Sometimes I forget how much older you two are and then things like this remind me.  It's all right.  If I think she's pushing just to push, even if she stops immediately, hit her anyway?"  Duncan kept his voice level.  He'd agreed to this, and he had no doubt Methos knew what he was talking about when it came to confusing her with mixed signals.

"Basically?  Yes.  You're not a fool, brother; I think you'll know if she starts pushing."  Methos grinned at him.  "Of course, she may simply want the pain.  I won't know until I've watched her a little while longer.  Some slaves like a good spanking before sex.  We may give it to her anyway, or we may be cruel and not.  Wait and see."

Duncan nodded as he watched Gemma moving in the kitchen, working quickly and quietly to clean everything up. Odd not to hear her singing or humming as she worked, clattering the pots and picking on the two men for being lazy.  Methos reached out and wrapped a hand across the top of a shoulder.  "Brother?"

"Culture shock, I think."

That got a nod.  "Understandable.  Relax and enjoy, brother, she is.  Now, then.  Other than a bath and massage, what do you want from her?  Nothing is forbidden today.  Not that it would be any other day, most like, but today take what you will."

Duncan laughed at that.  "I'll think about it.  But after dealing with you two this morning, a good rubdown sounds like heaven all by itself."

Methos studied him thoughtfully.  "You realize that you don't need an excuse if you want to beat her.  If you decide she'd look better with a few handprints on that lovely ass, do it.  She won't think twice about it, except to worry what she's done wrong."

The younger man had no answer for that, and Methos leaned in and kissed him, long and lingering.  The slow possession of the younger man's mouth was more controlled and aggressive than usual.  When he pulled away, he murmured, "Easy, brother.  It's not that bad, you'll be fine.  Let yourself enjoy this for this one day.  You're not the kind to make a habit of it, I promise you.  Quit worrying and enjoy."

Duncan looked over and realized Gemma had moved from the kitchen to stand a few feet away from them, still not looking any higher than their chests.  Methos said calmly, "Everything locked up?"

"Yes, sir."

"All the windows as well, and the shutters down?"  He waited for her quiet reply, then asked about the kitchen as well.  Satisfied with the answers, Methos continued, "Good.  Strip."

She didn't bother with a verbal reply to that and Duncan suspected Methos hadn't wanted one.  She simply slipped off the jeans, folded them and put them off to one side, and repeated the procedure with the sweater and panties as well.  When Methos snapped his fingers, she moved up to him to have the sword sheath removed, but Gemma made no move to touch it until he handed it to her and told her to put it in the chest at the bottom of the bed.

Duncan couldn't help watching her as she walked.  Aidan wandered around the loft or his barge naked any time she pleased, and he always enjoyed the view, but Gemma sauntered.  There was no other good word for it.  Watching her walk across a room, the way she swung her hips and ass, made him understand the phrase 'provoking a riot.'

Methos watched him in amusement.  "I did say she was enjoying this."

The younger man chuckled, face flaming from excitement as much as embarrassment at being caught so obviously in his thoughts.  "So you did.  Now what?"

She had walked back and knelt between the two of them, waiting for the next order.  Methos replied calmly, "You're the one who needs the rubdown."

Duncan noticed she hadn't moved and decided this was probably her first careful test.  "Undress me."

Methos smiled to himself at both the speed of the reaction and the tone of Duncan's voice.  If Gemma had thought the younger man would go easy on her, she was revising that opinion very quickly about now.  He threw his approval across the link to Duncan, knowing she couldn't hear it.  That was one of the few problems here.  If it had been Duncan taking the orders, the two older immortals could have talked around him easily in any of a dozen languages, many of them eminently suited to the topic.  However, Aidan probably spoke every language he and Duncan had in common.

Almost casually, the slender man added his command to Duncan's.  "Use your mouth, Gemma.  Left hand only, and only when absolutely necessary.  Both hands to fold the clothes."

Duncan glanced quickly at Methos but said nothing.  Then he saw her mouth close around his belt-buckle, tugging it away to open the belt.  Arousal smacked him hard, leaving him almost gasping for air.  The sight of those moist lips so close to his crotch, yet not touching, was incredibly erotic, and he knew this was what Methos had wanted him to feel and realize.

She moved around him on her knees, working at the belt carefully with her lips as she went, tugging it loose a section at a time.  When she had it free, she folded it carefully with both hands and was turning to put it away when Methos said sternly, "Gemma."

Without a word of protest, she turned back and handed the belt to Methos instead.  He dropped it on the bed, and Duncan saw the quick relieved sigh she gave before returning her attention to undressing him.  She managed a surprising amount with her mouth alone, although she did have to use her hand to pull his shirt off.  The feel of damp hair on bare skin threatened Duncan's self-control when she came a little too near his erect cock pulling off his briefs.

She leaned in and pressed a brief kiss against his erection.  To Duncan's surprise, Methos immediately cuffed the slave hard enough to rock her back on her heels.  "I didn't hear that order, slave.  Did you?"

"No, sir," came the immediate reply as she moved back onto her knees.  "I'm sorry, master."

Duncan raised an eyebrow at Methos, giving a slight shrug with one shoulder.  The older man shook his head and Duncan sighed inwardly and cuffed her again from the other side.  "Do as you're told, Gemma, not as you like."  None of his mental reservations showed in his voice, which was as cold as Methos' had been.

When she straightened again this time, there was a subtle difference in her body language.  Duncan had no idea what it was, but he could almost feel an added deference towards him as well as Methos.  She went back to work and quickly got his socks off as well.

Methos said coldly, "Get robes for both of us, give him one immediately, then undress me."

After she had headed to the wardrobe and had her back to them, Methos raised an eyebrow at Duncan.  The younger man gave him a half-shrug and rueful grin and Methos chuckled softly.  "You'll do.  Don't worry."

"Easy for you to say."

"And you as well.  We're in charge, brother, not her.  Don't forget that.  Let her worry, not you."  Methos laid his fingers on the Scot's forearm, sending reassurance across their link and a fierceness that was comforting in itself.

Duncan sat on the bed in his robe and watched as she undressed Methos, trying to decide what it was about this he found so incredibly arousing.  He was honest enough to admit it to himself and curious enough to try to understand.  It wasn't just the change in Aidan's behavior, although that alone gave this almost the charge a new lover always brought to things, that interest in a new person's reactions and pleasures. The Scot had always known this other Methos was there; the more Duncan saw, however, the more he was drawn to this aspect of Methos.

This man was as strong as the broadsword he used and as casual in his strength.  Even his body language had changed.  The habitual slouch was gone, the slight pulling in of the shoulders 'Adam' used to try to look weaker than he was, the ducked head that implied he'd dodge any confrontation, much less a challenge.  Methos stood there, shoulders back, relaxed and natural as he accepted the slave's services, almost arrogant in his stance, and  Duncan realized he considered his lover even more gorgeous than before.  What finally caught the Scot's attention though, and seemed the greatest change, was how the older immortal was watching everything.

Normally 'Adam' studied the world with his head tilted slightly to one side or the other, the expression on his face that of an observer noting details of some odd and amusing species.  Methos on the other hand stood there, head up, almost looking down at their slave.  The irreverent thought crossed through Duncan's mind that the oldest immortal certainly had the nose to look down....  Mac hastily stifled the laugh that thought brought.

Methos turned to see what had amused him and Duncan waved him off, mirth still dancing in his eyes and around the corners of his mouth.  His arousal had never wavered, even through the laughter, and Duncan realized that he found this aspect of Methos even more appealing than the one he normally got to see.  A small part of his mind wondered what it would be like to be the one taking orders, and the younger man wondered wryly if he wasn't going to have to ask the other two to show him -- one day.

Gemma carefully tied the robe around Methos and knelt back down.  Methos said quietly, "Do I have to repeat an order?"

The startled look that drew told him she had honestly forgotten, although recognition followed almost as quickly.  "No, sir."  She looked over at Duncan, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed, and asked, "Do you want a massage now or later, master?"

"Now, I think."  Duncan sat and waited to see what she'd do next.

She glanced quickly around, saw the towels and massage oil next to the bed, and nodded.  Rising to her feet, the slave brought a pillar candle over and carefully placed it on the headboard so that the light wouldn't be in Duncan's eyes.  A soft blanket from the chest, arranged it on the bottom of the bed, completed her preparations.

Methos pulled a chair over and slouched into it, bare feet propped on the bed, watching both of them from hooded eyes.

Gemma knelt in front of Duncan and carefully untied his sash with just her teeth, then moved behind him to draw the robe off his shoulders.  When the Scot stood up, she removed the robe and placed it on the blanket chest at the foot of the bed.  He stretched out on the bed on his stomach, adjusting his erection casually as he lay down.  Still using her mouth, she pulled the blanket up over him to his shoulders to protect him against the November chill in the room.

Warming a small amount of the oil in one hand, she pulled the blanket up a bit with the other and set to work on Duncan's foot.  Strong, careful fingers rubbed out the arch, loosening tension across half his body it seemed, then rubbed the ball of the foot, and pulled gently at his toes.  Gemma stretched his foot carefully to get the muscles across the top, then flexed it and tugged just enough to stretch the ankle as well, finally running both hands firmly down the arch to the ball one more time to settle all the bones in place.

That done, she folded the blanked a bit farther off Duncan's leg and went to work on his calf muscle.  From there she moved up the back of his thigh, digging down to get at the hamstring.  She rubbed out his hip and ass with careful, impersonal hands, a small smile twitching the corners of her mouth when he groaned in appreciation.

Gemma pulled the blanket back in place with one hand while moving the oil in the other, still half-smiling to herself as she did.  Her gaze crossed Methos' face as she moved to start on Duncan's left leg; his level stare froze her in her tracks for a moment.

All he said was, "Use your hands only when necessary."

She nodded immediately, shivering, pulse drumming through her body with tension and a panic/pleasure reaction.  Duncan turned his head to glance at Methos but something in the other man's face convinced him not to worry about it.  This time she moved the blanket off his foot with her teeth, smoothing it into place with one hand.  A quick look out of the corner of her eyes showed neither approval nor disapproval from her hazel-eyed master, but he hadn't reached for the belt either.

Gemma worked out the muscles of that leg as well, moving the blanket with her mouth each time, only smoothing it into place with one hand when necessary to keep the younger master warm.  That leg finished, she pulled the blanket back into place with her teeth and ran both hands along first one leg and then the other through the blanket, partly to absorb some of the oil but more to enhance the overall relaxation she was working towards.

She settled onto her knees near the head of the bed to start on Duncan's hand, only to pause as he casually stroked fingers up the ridge of her nose, across the forehead, and down her cheek.  He placed one fingertip on her lips and she tilted her head just enough to kiss it, eyes closing for a moment.  When he withdrew his hand, she went back to work.

Each finger received individual attention, then the palm, then the tendons between the carpals.  When his hand had been relaxed completely, she went to work on his wrist and forearm, slowly rubbing her way toward his shoulder.  When she finished the upper arm, she gently tucked his arm down at his side, pulling the blanket out of the way to do it, and then smoothing it back into place.

She picked up the oil and moved around the bed to work on the other hand and arm.  Methos reached out and caught her as she passed, feet slipping off the bed as he stood up.  She stopped immediately, eyes wide but not looking above his chest.

"What was my last order?"  The voice held an ominous calm and Duncan watched with interest, not needing to move anything but his eyes to see.  Already the massage had relaxed him enough to watch with a combination of casual detachment and contemplative interest in Methos' strength.

Gemma replied carefully, "That I only use my hands when necessary, master."

"Think quickly.  Why did I stop you?"

Her eyebrows drew down as she thought back.  "I don't know, sir.  It seemed to me that keeping him warm once I had the muscles relaxed was the important part, and I couldn't lift the blanket aside with my mouth while moving his arm, master."

"You should have pulled it back into place with your mouth, not your hands," he said implacably, no excuse sought or accepted.  One long-fingered hand rested under her chin, tilting her head up and holding her in place almost effortlessly.  "Six.  Not a sound from you, Gemma."

Duncan's eyes widened slightly as Methos cupped her ass with one hand almost lovingly before pulling back the arm and spanking her hard enough to make a red hand print stand out instantly.  The older immortal could see her nostrils flare, but she made no sound, only drew a hasty deep breath as he cupped the other ass cheek and did the same thing again.  Alternating sides, Methos delivered a total of six hard smacks to that muscular ass, then let her chin back down.

The muscles on her legs were jumping slightly, but she hadn't groaned or even let her breath hiss.  Methos trapped her eyes with his own, studying her reactions almost clinically, then he cupped one hand over her groin and smiled at the heat.  "At least you're paying attention to something.  Go back to work before I make you start over."

Gemma knelt quickly on the bed and went to work on Duncan's other hand, lifting it to her mouth to kiss the fingertips first.  While she was still working on Duncan's palm, Methos said conversationally, "It's almost a pity the way the red fades, brother.  I should have let you see before it did."

Duncan noticed the steady progress of those strong hands up his arm, not even pausing at the comment, and something goaded him to reply, "I'll let you show me when she's done.  She knew better.  Another six won't hurt her."

Knowing her back was too him, Methos let the grin cross his face.  This might yet erode some of Duncan's overly chivalrous tendencies.  By itself, that would be worth the day's work!  He settled back into his chair to oversee the massage, enjoying this immensely.  Watching the contortions of that supple body as Gemma pulled the blanket down Duncan's torso using her teeth (without using her hands for balance) gave Methos a very good show.

The younger man reached out with one hand while she was warming the oil for his back and pushed her knees farther apart.  "I don't remember you keeping your legs so close together earlier this morning," Duncan said softly, sounding more menacing than a normal tone would.  Sensibly, she said nothing, only moved as he required.  The Scot went on, "Make very sure we don't have to remind you of that order."

"Yes, master."  She moved to straddle him, keeping her crotch well over his waist to resist temptation, and began to work on his shoulders and back.  She began by smoothing the oil over him in long strokes, then began to seriously work on the muscles.  He groaned at one point and she immediately eased the pressure off.

Methos snapped, "Do it right, Gemma."

At the same time, Duncan growled at her.  "I didn't tell you to stop."

She glanced back and forth between them and returned to her work with a great deal of care, applying the same pressure she'd been using before until the muscle loosened.  When she reached his waist, the slave moved back to one side, her back to Methos again, and pulled the blanket back up.  Again she soothed the entire area with long smooth strokes to finish that part of the massage.  Rubbing out his neck was no problem, although moving Duncan's hair out of the way without her oily hands getting it too sticky drove her half mad.

That done she quietly suggested, "If you'll please turn over, master, I'll get the front."

Duncan rolled over, casual and lazy, and said, "Some water, first.  You'd better see if my brother wants any while you're at it."

Methos was having trouble suppressing a grin. _When the Highlander gets into a mindset...._

The slave backed off the bed and knelt beside the older immortal.  Without looking up, she asked, "May I bring you something to drink, master?"

"Orange juice, I think."  He ran a casual hand across her hair, amused that it was still damp and surprised that MacLeod hadn't complained about cold strands on his back.  "And get a comb and hair tie while you're at it."

She murmured a 'yes, sir' and backed away to carry out the orders.  Duncan propped his head on one arm and watched her move, then looked over at Methos.  Quietly enough that she couldn't hear on the far side of the barge, Duncan asked, "Anything else she's forgetting to do?"

"The legs need to stay where you moved them, but other than that she's behaving fairly well.  You cracked down on her at once which did wonders.  Nicely done."  The approval in Methos' voice warmed Duncan and he let his pleasure spin back to his friend over the link.

When Gemma came back with the drinks, she set comb and hair tie beside the bed and Duncan's water next to them.  She knelt next to Methos and presented the glass to him without looking up, using both hands.

He took it from her and drank a long swallow, then said, "Go on."

She moved onto the bed and took Duncan's water with her.  He made no move to sit up, wanting to see what she'd do.  To his surprise, she tilted the glass to her mouth and took a sip.  She leaned in, balancing carefully, and kissed him.  He drank the water out of her mouth, then nipped at her lower lip.  She straightened and continued to pass him the water without making him rise, until the Scot said calmly, "That's enough for now.  You may have some for yourself, if you wish."

"Thank you, master."  Gemma drank her water, then put the glass safely out of the way.  Using her mouth, she started to draw the blanket down to work on his chest, but Methos stopped her.

"No, get his legs first."

Duncan watched as she worked on one leg then the other.  It was amazing how erotic the little things could be, her mouth pulling the blankets out of the way, watching hands that strong and quick (and, Duncan knew from personal experience, lethal) completely under someone else's control working on him.  He glanced over and his breath caught when he saw the look on Methos' face.

Contained strength that was incredibly arousing in itself was there, and passion as well.  Gemma was too busy to notice Methos, but he was enjoying watching what she was doing.  From the feel off the link between the two men, part of it was the pleasure of controlling a very strong woman but an equal part was the anticipation of showing Duncan the more gratifying aspects of mastery.

Gold-green eyes caught brown, one eyebrow raised in amused question as Methos felt himself being subtly probed, but he nodded when Duncan waved him off with one hand.  The older immortal continued to watch, glad to see the other man relaxing into this.  The Scot had no idea how gorgeous a picture he made lying there half-covered in fire- and candlelight, head propped up on one forearm.  Dark hair falling around his face, gold skin throwing back the light, that sensual mouth slightly open as he watched the slave working on him...  Methos could have watched the two of them together for days.

Those deft hands had carefully worked out every muscle in his legs without touching Duncan's cock or balls, which was a good thing as aroused as he had become.  Methos mentally applauded the younger man's control in making her finish the body rub first, but he had already decided what her next orders were going to be.  If Duncan was to understand how things had been, he needed to understand that ordering a pleasure slave to give pleasure was no different than telling a waiter what he wanted for dinner.

It took Gemma a few seconds to figure out how to sit near Duncan's head to work on his face without letting her legs close too far to suit her masters.  She finally sat on one bent leg, the other stretched out along the younger master's side as the best compromise she could manage.  The older master didn't say anything, so she kept working and hoped it suited him.  Very quickly the massage demanded too much attention for her to worry about it.  The earlier arguments had left a great deal of tension in the Scot's jaw and forehead, his temples and the muscles just above and just under his ears.  She spent several minutes working them out until he sighed and purred under her hands.

That finally done, she rubbed little circles down the muscles and tendons on either side of his windpipe... only to feel both wrists held so firmly the bones ground together painfully under the grip.  The older master had leaned in over both of them and grabbed her.

Methos whispered in her ear in a voice that chilled her skin and sent heat straight to nipples and crotch both. "No hands on the throat, slave.  Your lips if you must, but not your hands or your teeth."

Duncan's eyes opened in surprise.  That cold, harsh tone grabbed his attention immediately and he reached to catch Methos' shoulder.  For a moment he could almost see desert sand, feel the burning sun in a cloudless sky, and he knew that prohibition came from the paranoia of years with the Horsemen.  The Scot reached for Methos with his eyes, through their link, and not least with his voice.  "Brother.  Come back to me, brother."  The love and affection in his voice finally eased the shuttered tension in those darkened eyes and Methos' face softened.

The older immortal noticed the worry in the corners of Duncan's eyes first, and the deliberate outpour of love across their link.  Then he felt the constant tremors in the naked body under his chest and the pressure his hands were exerting against bone where he held the slave's wrists.  Methos gentled his grip immediately and settled behind her, pulling the slave against himself.

"Stay where you are, brother, no point undoing her work."  The quiet voice belied the harshness of the words and Duncan relaxed slightly, sure that the other man was back in this year again.  Now Methos used the same voice to soothe the slave as his hands rubbed at her bruised wrists.  "No fault of yours, Gemma, you've done well.  Were you finished with his throat?"

She shivered against him again, then relaxed almost convulsively, letting go of the tension and sagging into his warmth.  Her voice was very steady, however, as she replied, "No, sir, not quite.  Shall I stop?  Or complete it?"

Methos set his mouth against the side of her throat and slowly bit down, still holding her hands in front of her.  Duncan watched in fascination as she arched into it, the motion starting at the base of her hips, throwing belly and breast into a smooth curving line, her head falling back on Methos' shoulder, mouth agape and silent.  Even after she had could arch no further, the Scot could see the muscles in her stomach continuing to tremble, her nipples tight.  Finally her hands clenched into fists and she gave a wordless cry, arms pressing down against Methos' grasp.

Duncan glanced back up to see what the older immortal was doing to her and realized he knew that look, although he was used to seeing those hollowed cheeks wrapped around his cock instead.  Methos had first bitten her throat and was now sucking it.  This was going to leave one hell of a bruise to mark her for a while, even with immortal healing.  And even for an immortal, Gemma's throat was sensitive.  She was already on the verge of orgasm from just the bite; neither man had even started to tease that responsive body yet.

Methos finally let go of her neck and straightened up to inspect his work.  Her face was flushed, but it didn't begin to match the half-dollar sized, dark purple bruise that was already sparkling slightly as immortal healing worked.  The older man let go of her arms and ran his palms over taut nipples, chuckling as she groaned and arched against him.  "Finish your work, Gemma.  You may use hands on his throat this once, but be careful."  He tweaked her nipples, chuckling again as she squirmed.  "Do I have to tell you that you need our permission to come at any point during this day and night?"

"No, sir, I know that."  Her reply was immediate, if shaky.

Duncan raised an eyebrow in interest.  He hadn't been aware of that.

Methos tipped her chin up with one hand and she twisted from the waist to see him.  He leaned in and kissed her harshly, his mouth deliberately possessive and bruising as his hand dropped between her legs and stroked into the wet heat there.  She moaned into his kiss desperately, hips arching into his hand.  Methos laughed again as he pulled away, and raised his hand to her mouth.  Gemma licked her own flavors off his fingers, deliberately teasing with tongue and teeth, and Methos gave her an amused look.

"Go back to work, wench."  He swatted her lightly on the ass with the hand she'd just teased.

She drew a deep breath, grey eyes almost black with arousal, and settled back onto one leg to massage Duncan's throat.  The younger man watched her from knowing, laughing, brown eyes and said abruptly, "Let me see your neck."

She twisted immediately to let the light catch the fading bruise on her throat, gasping when he ran a thumbnail along the edge of the mark.

"Nice, very nice.  All right, go back to work."  Her hands were shaking slightly as she worked on him and Duncan felt a grin twitching at his lips, amused both by her reactions and by his own reactions to her.

Over her shoulder, Methos smiled at both of them.  "I did tell you to enjoy, brother.  Still think it'll be a chore to endure?"

Duncan laughed at that.  "I knew better even then."

Methos ran his hand lightly along her back when she pulled the sheet off Duncan's torso.  She suppressed a whimper, moving to straddle Duncan's waist as she rubbed out his stomach and chest.  Again, Gemma was very careful to keep it strictly professional.  She remembered the casual slaps when she had exceeded her instructions before and knew full well that punishment for disobedience was cumulative, not fixed.  Every time they had to punish her would be worse than the time before had been, regardless of how minor the offense involved.

But the younger master had been aroused the entire time she worked on him, and she hated leaving him like that.  It went against everything she'd been trained to.  It was a relief to have the older master stop her when she started to pull the blanket back up.

"No."  Methos said it calmly, and Duncan glanced over to see what now.  The more slender man moved onto the bed to sit next to Duncan's shoulder and he tipped the slave's chin up with one finger.  Smiling at her, Methos said, "I notice he's not entirely relaxed, Gemma."

That drew a smile from her, and she looked up at both of them from under her eyelashes almost demurely.  "No, sir, he doesn't seem to be."

Methos clasped Duncan's shoulder with the other hand and said, "Give her some room to work, why don't you, brother?"

The Highlander knew exactly what he meant, and while part of him found the idea of requiring her to do anything in bed appalling, the rest of his mind pointed out that all three of them had entered into this quite willingly.  A closer look at Gemma told Duncan she was enjoying all of this, and he knew damn well Aidan enjoyed going down on him.  The younger man spread his legs under the blanket, wanting to see what exactly she would do.

The slave moved to one side and pulled the blanket down a bit farther with her mouth, deliberately moving her mouth just barely over his cock.  Cool hair trailed her movement this time, which brought an amused look to Methos' face and a gasp from Duncan.  She reached back and tied a quick knot in her hair to keep it out of her face and their view, then settled onto her knees in between Duncan's legs.  He hadn't quite left her enough room to keep her legs apart as ordered, but she sighed mentally and went back to work.  Nothing was going to stop them from punishing her if they wanted.

Duncan groaned as she used her mouth and tongue to imitate the circular rubbing motions from the massage; this time she was rubbing just above the pelvic bone, smooth cheek pressed against the side of his cock where he could feel the muscles in her jaw working.  His imagination worked overtime, feeding him images and sensations of what that would feel like if her lips only moved a little to one side....

Gemma didn't quite tease him -- but she finished the massage of every portion of his body around his cock before she began to bathe his balls with her tongue.  The younger man groaned again as she licked the sensitive skin just behind his testicles, nose buried in his pubic hair and scent, and then began to work back up without ever playing with his ass.

Methos took a sip of his orange juice, the picture of decadence as he lounged on the bed and watched her please his lover.  "Something wrong, brother?  Does she not suit you?"

"She suits me just fine, but she teases."

That stopped her instantly and she raised her head, grey eyes surprised and shocked.  "Sir?  What did I do?"

At the same time Methos sat up from where he'd been slouched and asked almost the same question.  "What did she do, brother?"

Duncan paused at the double reply, then his brain kicked back in and he realized he had just gotten Gemma into a great deal of trouble.  But he answered casually, "It's what she didn't do.  Stroked and rubbed everywhere except my ass."

"I'm sorry, master, I thought that was his place to play, not mine," and she indicated Methos with her chin.

Duncan flushed and grinned simultaneously, remembering various cracks Methos had made to the effect that she wasn't equipped to tease him down there.

Methos nodded thoughtfully.  "Next time, brother, if you want her to do something, move her.  Slave, I take it you were trained to leave men be there?"

"Yes, sir."  Her eyes were relieved and Methos put his fingers to her mouth to be kissed.

"You aren't in trouble, but remember that he likes it and it's acceptable and required."  He pressed lightly on her lips.  "Go back to what you were doing, Gemma.  You weren't even close to finished."

She promptly went back to licking at Duncan's balls, descending to please him as he'd wanted.  The Scot spread his thighs a bit wider to give her better access as she lifted his hips with hands whose strength constantly surprised him.

Methos leaned in and murmured into his ear, "Different customs, brother.  I'm not surprised Gracchus trained her that way:  his establishment didn't offer boys; he ran a 'moral' house.  But if you want something from her, tell her one way or another."

Duncan gasped as that darting tongue ran along the sensitive flesh around his anus, teasing and probing.  He pulled his brother down for a long kiss that grew increasingly more heated.  Methos kissed him back aggressively, one hand wrapped behind his neck and teasing his ear.

When they broke the kiss, Duncan said roughly, "What I want is you inside me and her mouth wrapped around me.  Is that going to interfere with the day's plans?"

Methos laughed at that.  "The plans aren't set in stone, brother.  What you want is not a problem at all."  The older man reached for the massage oil as Duncan pressed on the slave's shoulders to stop her.

"Master?"  Her eyes were unworried this time.  "What would you like?"

Duncan laughed and said, "Turn that talented mouth on getting him out of that robe and aroused, why don't you?  I have a slight change of plans in mind."

She promptly untied Methos robe, but he had her leave it in place as she licked and nibbled on his already erect cock.  The sight of that dark head moving on Methos' groin had Duncan achingly hard as he watched.  Very quickly Methos pushed her away and turned his attention to preparing Duncan to be taken.  The slave knelt by the side of the bed, obviously enjoying the sight of the two men together.

Methos shifted Duncan onto his side, using one hand on his hip to steady him as the older immortal slowly pressed inward.  Once past the ring of muscle, he let the younger man catch his breath and relax against the invasion before ordering the slave to lie in front of them.  She smiled, catching on immediately, and curled onto her side in front of Duncan's crotch, legs tucked so as not to fall off the bed.  Her mouth wrapped lovingly around the head of his cock and began a slow, gentle blowjob as Methos began to stroke into and out of his lover, moving farther in with each return.

Soon Duncan could do nothing except lie there, trapped between the two of them, drowning in pleasure.  It was an incredible sensation to be filled with Methos' heat and surrounded by Gemma's, rocked forward with every thrust of his hips, and teased with every motion of her lips and tongue.  The drag of the terrycloth robe on his thighs, where Methos had deliberately draped it around both of them, added another set of sensations.  Duncan could feel teeth against the back of his neck, and knew them for Methos', but he wasn't sure whose hands were playing with his nipples and didn't care.

The Scot hissed at the feel of cold air on his cock, then realized Gemma was simply following Methos' lead and dragging this out.  The older man had all the control in this and was moving in a slow, rocking motion that could drive Duncan mad for quite a while yet.  Her mouth returned to his cock, nibbling gently down his shaft, placing butterfly kisses back up, tracing circles on the head as if it were an ice cream cone to be slurped, and all the while Methos was moving inside him.  Duncan growled and tightened his ass muscles around his lover.

That turned out to be an interesting mistake.  The older immortal swiftly pinned his hands, pulling one behind Duncan's head and twisting the other one behind his back.  Methos whispered in his ear, "Her, you can order; me, you ask.  Did you want something, brother?"

A hard thrust punctuated the question and Methos twisted his hips at the end of the stroke as he nipped sharply at Duncan's earlobe.  The Highlander cried out in pleasure at the sensations and answered, "God, yes, I wanted that."

"Ah, why didn't you simply say so?"  Methos pulled back so gently Duncan moaned in dismay.

"Brother, will you please stop teasing and fuck me?"  The desperate voice and use of profanity told Methos that the younger man was at the end of his control.  It occurred to the older immortal that they had just run into a fantasy Duncan had never even let himself admit to having and he took pity on the other man.

One word, "Yes," and Duncan felt his arms released.  Strong arms tightened around his waist and chest and Methos was thrusting into him faster and harder.  It would have been almost brutal if it wasn't so exactly what Duncan wanted.  With one arm, the younger man pulled the slave's mouth against him.  She didn't even have to move; Methos' strokes were moving Duncan's cock into and out of her mouth.

It was too good, the hard, hot cock inside his ass, the warm mouth and tongue around his cock, strong hands massaging his balls, sharp teeth biting him where the neck met the shoulder....  Duncan roared as he came, pushing back hard against Methos' hips, then thrusting into Gemma's mouth where his hand held her against his crotch.  The last thing he knew before he passed out was the feel of Gemma's mouth and throat swallowing around him as the orgasm seemed to go on forever.

When he could see again, Duncan realized he was in the middle of the bed with a blanket pulled over him and Methos was curled along his side.  He heard soft footsteps, then the slave sat down on the bed.  Methos reached out to pull her against Duncan's other side.  Even through the blanket, the Scot could feel the heat pouring off her groin.  Her muscles were trembling, too, but right now thinking was an effort; moving was beyond him.

He heard that soft voice asking Methos, "Do you think he's all right, master?"

That got a quiet chuckle and a reply of, "Fishing for compliments, Gemma?  You did well.  We'll reward you for it in a little while, provided you don't manage to get in trouble before he's coherent."

"He's not used to this, is he, sir?"  The gentle voice wasn't insulting, merely offering an observation.  "He does well, but he's not used to it at all."  She rested an arm on Duncan's chest as he closed his eyes, floating in pleasure between the two of them.

"No, he's not.  I am, so don't even think about getting off easy.  Part of this is to show him what it was like."  Methos chuckled softly.  "I think he's catching on pretty well."

"Yes, sir."  She fell silent, one hand gently stroking Duncan's chest before moving to caress Methos' shoulder.

"Did I tell you to play?"

It was a casual question, and she could tell from the tone that he wasn't angry.  "No, sir.  But I wouldn't want you to think I was ignoring either of you."

That got a chuckle and she purred quietly against Duncan's side.  Then she said hesitantly, "Master?"

"Yes?"

"If you don't need me for a few moments, may I drowse?"

Methos pushed up onto one arm and studied her intently, turning her face up to the candlelight.  It only then occurred to him that she had gotten maybe four hours of sleep after effectively running a double marathon.  The grey eyes that met his were clear, aware that she might have presumed with that question, but very tired.

"Don't even want your reward first?"  He watched the eyes and the body and nodded to himself.  She was exhausted all right if that required thought.

"Sleep, Gemma.  We'll wake you in a little while.  You pleased both of us, I suspect we'll both see you're properly rewarded for it."  That did get a smile and another little purring noise from her.  "But for now your orders are very simple.  Pull the blanket over both of you and don't let him get cold on that side."

"I think I can do that, master."

Methos chuckled and settled in to nap for awhile himself.  He could feel the Highlander sliding into sleep between them.  Time enough to continue his education later this afternoon.

Charleston, South Carolina - that same night/morning

The last spinning blue light receded from the house and Stormy sat numbly at the kitchen table, holding the coffee mug more for a place to put her hand than for the warmth or to drink the stuff.  She studied the coal-black substance as if the answers to the universe spun there in some elongated calligraphy.

"Stormy?"  Damien's voice.  _He shouldn't be able to talk.  He shouldn't...._ The shakes and the terrors threatened to breach her walls and she turned away from that subject determinedly.  A warm weight settled around her shoulders and she pulled the fabric more closely around herself.  A surprisingly gentle hand soothed errant strands of hair back from her face before she heard him move out of the room.

Left alone, she simply shut down:  unseeing, unhearing, uncaring.

An indefinable period of time later, those same strong hands urged her up out of the chair.  Stormy focused her eyes on one particular square of the plaid shirt, the one with the button breaking the corner, so that she didn't have to see anything else.  No face, no broken furniture, nothing.  Green threads ran vertically down his shirt, then black; black and blue threads alternated on the horizontal lines.  _Black and blue, just like that man's face....  No.  I will not think about that._   Instead she focused on the warm hands holding hers, the steady voice telling her that it wasn't far now.

She sat where he placed her, grateful for the warm coat around her shoulders as she sat down on a wooden chair that surprised her by being intact.  A brush ran through her hair carefully; after a brief pause, a warm washcloth cleaned her hands and face.  Soft words in an unknown language nearly got her attention, but Stormy tried not to look, not to listen.  All she wanted to do was sleep.  Except that she hoped this was a dream.

Those same strong hands tugged off her boots and socks, unbuttoned her shirt as carefully as he had buttoned it on her before the police arrived, then urged her to stand.  Her jeans were undone and peeled down her legs, and Damien helped her balance as she automatically kicked them off.  He must have managed to find the thermal underwear she wore as pajamas (her mind shied from the thought that her bedroom could have been ransacked like the rest of her house, leaving such things out for anyone to see) because he continued to hold her steady as she stepped into the leggings.

She tugged the top over her head in the same daze that she had done everything else, and Damien turned her away from him before he undid the bra and slid it down over her arms.  She pulled on the arms of the shirt and he saw without surprise that her eyes were still closed when he turned her around.  _Let her get some sleep, and a solid meal down in the morning, and she'll be fine._ The immortal shook his head in amazement.  _Sylvana Storm, you are really something.  You didn't come apart on me until the whole shooting match was over; you even held up for the police statements, which is a helluva lot more than I ever expected after everything you've been through tonight.  The least I can do is take care of you until you're in shape to decide what you want to do._

Part of him feared her solution would be to decide she never wanted to see him again, but that was her choice, and not one to be made while in shock.  She clambered into the double bed obediently, and Damien pulled the sheets and blankets up over her.  Very softly, he said, "I've left the light on in the hallway and I'll be out on the couch tonight.  If you need me, for anything, just call.  You're not alone, Stormy."

The narrow vertical line between her eyebrows eased as her frown did, and she sighed.  Then without a word, she turned over onto her stomach, slid one hand onto the pillow beside her face, and fell asleep instantly.

Damien sighed as well and turned back to his self-appointed task:  putting her house back in order, as much as possible.  It had already been a very long night, and the dawn seemed incredibly far away.

~*~*~*~

  


Paris, France - that afternoon

The smell of cooking apples mixed with the scent of burning wood from the fire, tantalizing Methos even in his dreams.  The bed gave under someone's weight and the oldest immortal came completely awake, although his breathing never changed.  Eyes still closed, he hastily sorted out where he was and who should be near until the gentle touch on his lips answered that question for him.

Duncan's voice in his ear, as it had been his lips on Methos' mouth.  "Awake, brother?"

"I am now," Methos answered, one arm reaching up to pull his lover against him.  "Did I sleep long?"

"It's late afternoon.  We all needed it."

The older immortal looked around and saw the tidied barge and their slave working in the kitchen.  That explained the smells, at least.  "Your orders, I assume?"

Duncan shrugged.  "I didn't think leaving her any leisure time was a good idea and we're all going to be hungry.  Can you see taking her to a restaurant like this?"

Methos smiled wickedly.  "Don't tempt me.  You'd be in for some surprises, and I can think of a few places we could go."

Duncan shook his head, amazed and intrigued.  "No, don't tempt me.  I want her talking to us when this is over.  That is sort of the point."

"So it is.  Have you rewarded her yet?"  That drew a raised eyebrow and an inquiring look and Methos shook his head in amusement.  "Has she pleased you today?"

"Yes."  The younger man's face flushed as he remembered being trapped in pleasure between the two of them.  "That was incredible."

Methos tilted his head to one side, studying his lover.  "We could have done that before now, you know.  She wouldn't have objected."

"I know," Duncan answered him seriously, "but I hate to take without giving."

"She enjoys your pleasure, brother, even when she isn't a slave."  Methos sat up and said, "Pull on some clothes and let's go talk on the deck.  You need to hear this, but she doesn't need to know what I'm telling you."

Both of them got dressed and headed outside, stopping only to make sure Gemma understood that she was to continue working on dinner and make the bed as well.  The brisk November wind was something of a shock to both of them, but it finished waking the men up, as well.

"Do you know why being a slave has its addictive aspects, brother?  Especially the way it's handled in the BDSM crowd, but even in years past?"

"Aidan said that not thinking was one part of it," Duncan answered slowly, "but I get the feeling I'm missing this."

Methos put one hand on his shoulder, looking directly into his lover's eyes.  "The only thing that Gemma is thinking, brother, is how to please us.  That is her only worry.  She isn't thinking about paying bills, or worrying about how Rich is doing in Seacouver, or trying to figure out how to protect her identities and ours from being discovered by another immortal.  She's not even concerned about the Game and where those two immortals are.  Right now, that isn't her problem.

"She is a slave and we are the masters.  All she has to do is please us, and she knows that we will give her immediate and unmistakable corrections if she fails in that task.  She is hoping for equally unmistakable rewards if she does well, but that's hope.  It won't surprise her not to get it.  But right now, brother, all she wants is to please us.  And she will take her pleasure from ours."

Duncan stared at him incredulously, then said, "You're serious."

"Yes."

The younger immortal leaned against the skylight and thought about it for a while, fitting what he had seen so far to what Methos had said, what Aidan had implied earlier.  "You're saying this is almost a vacation for her, then, despite the work.  She's given over all control to us."

"That's why it can be addictive.  You should remember.  When slavery was outlawed in the US, a few of  the slaves didn't want to leave the farms.  It was the only life they knew, and some of them didn't want the responsibility of making all their own choices, with the chance of failing and dying.  Gemma isn't just leaning on our strength, brother, she is expecting it to be there.  This is as close to clinging as you will ever see her get."

The Scot nodded slowly.  "No wonder she's still friends with LaCroix then.  He's strong enough that she can lean on him, and he's not in the Game.  But if he's a Roman...."

"Was a Roman.  A general and a consul, if I remember correctly," Methos corrected, curious as to where Duncan was going with this.

"No," Duncan said firmly, "he's still a Roman, no matter where he lives or how old he is.  The same way I'm still a clansman.  I've dealt with Marcus Constantine long enough to know about _quid pro quo_.  How in hell does she keep things balanced with LaCroix?  Dealing with vampires looks like one long power struggle to me.  How is she going to even that out?"

"Because he needed it as badly as she did," Methos said grimly.  "Or he wouldn't have offered it as a solution.  Ask her later if you're worried, but I suspect she knows what she's doing.  She frequently does."

"Brother -- why do you like this?  I mean....  Hell, I don't know what I mean."

Methos regarded him speculatively.  "Which parts are you asking about?"

"The control I guess," Duncan finally answered.  "You're enjoying controlling her.  Why?"

"It's the ultimate power trip.  That strong a woman allowing me that much power.  Yes, she trusts me but she will do what I order whether she likes it or not.  It's the pleasure of pushing to the limits, whether mine or hers, of feeling that kind of trust from someone else.  And the savor of making her yield is there too, brother.  Didn't you feel it?  When you gave her that first order and she obeyed you -- no question, no complaint, just that sweet mouth and those strong hands in your service, at your least desire?"

Duncan closed his eyes, remembering the surge of lust when her mouth had closed over his belt buckle.  "Yes, I felt it."

Green-gold eyes met his.  "And did you like it?"

"Yes," Duncan said softly.  "It was a rush, like leading the clan into battle, or that last moment when you know you've won the fight."

Methos smiled at him.  "We will have to show you the other side sometime, just to keep you from getting hooked on one or the other.  Are you all right now?"

"I'm fine," Duncan laughed.  "But I won't get hooked on it.  I like strong lovers, thanks."

"I suppose you could try LaCroix," Methos said speculatively.

"Bite your tongue!"

"I'm sure he'd rather bite yours."

The wicked smile drew an answering grin from Duncan, but he could almost see gears turning in Methos' mind.  "No, thanks.  Finding out I enjoyed going to bed with you was odd enough.  If I enjoyed LaCroix, I might lose what little sanity I still have."

Instead of the grumbled sarcastic comment Mac had expected, he received a searching look that held him motionless while Methos reached out.  Strong, long-fingered hands fitted themselves to his cheeks, tilting the Scot's head to meet that gold-green gaze and he could feel the other man touching him along their link as well, probing at his emotions.  The quiet comment that came at last was not reassuring.

"This is not the time to discuss this,  I don't think.  But we'll need to, Dhonnchaidh."  The older immortal thinned the link between them again, fingertips trailing down his lover's face as he moved back a step.  "I need to think for a minute.  Why don't you check on Gemma?"

"Dismissing me?" came the ironic question, but Duncan was still too shaken by their exchange to pull it off convincingly.  The use of his birth name in his native tongue left the Scot wondering what Methos thought was so important.  The other man never used 'Duncan' lightly; what had brought on 'Dhonnchaidh?'

"Not really.  I just need a moment to consider something."  Methos was relieved when the younger man headed inside; he had not wanted to make that an order.  _Not least because Duncan would have taken it_ , he mused.

 _Gods, I knew some of the stresses of the past couple years had shaken him out of that complacent mind-set, but I didn't think the stubborn Scot had relaxed this much!  Whether he realizes it or not, part of the problem is that the Highlander's finding submission attractive and it doesn't fit what he thinks he should want.  Now Edana's yielding and he can't reconcile surrender to weakness because he knows her too well to see it as that.  But who would have thought Mac might admit he wants this?  And I think he will admit it, sooner or later._

He watched the river blindly for a little while, thinking, cataloguing, running the day's memories back through his mind and looking for different things now.  _I knew he was reacting to Gemma's behavior; Duncan does much better as a master than he ever expected he would.  But how did I miss his response to me?  He's deferred to me the entire day, and I don't think it's solely because I have experience and he doesn't._

 _At least this isn't trading one emotional bomb for another.  We can hold off dealing with Mac's reactions for a while yet.  Definitely time to do nothing and deal with that when it comes up_ \-- _later.  Gods know he could use the vacation from responsibility._ Methos smiled as he went inside. _Besides, it would be fun to see how many chores I could come up with that would keep the man on his hands and knees...._

~ ~ ~ ~

Dinner was an exquisite experience, not least for the service.  Gemma fed Duncan choice tidbits as the meal went on, held his wine glass for him to drink out of, and generally acted as his hands for the meal.  Methos watched, ate, and contented himself with mild-voiced instructions to ensure that neither of them forgot her status, but he fed himself rather than distract her between the two of them.  To his mind, the full focus of her attention needed to be on MacLeod this time.  In all honesty, though, he had no complaints with her skills and was beginning to understand why Gracchus had been able to demand such a high price for her attentions in Rome.

Duncan lounged back in his chair, abandoning himself to hedonism for the evening.  Gemma never let him lift a finger and she managed to be almost as enticing while feeding him as she had been walking across the barge.  Fingers would brush across his lips as she placed a morsel in his mouth, or the positioning of her hands as they lifted the wine glass drew his attention to her breasts, partially concealed by those raised arms.  And the motions of her hips as she knelt up off her ankles, or subsided back down to let him chat across the table, were extremely arousing.  Those clear grey eyes watched intently to see what he wanted almost before he knew, whether it was pork or wine, apples or rolls, or just the napkin and a chance to talk to Methos.  So far, she hadn't been wrong yet.

When the meal was finished, Methos sent her to make coffee and eat her own portion of dinner, which he'd dished out.  Very quietly he asked, "Still all right, brother?"

"I'm fine.  Did she learn this in Rome?"

"What, to serve like that?  Oh, yes.  She's very good, though that's no surprise from someone LaCroix helped train.  Although he wasn't likely to be interested in her presentation of food, she'd have learned those tricks with the goblet from him."  Methos smiled at his lover, amused by the other man's slightly shell-shocked reactions.  "Surely when you were in Constantinople you had personal servants?"

"Not like that.  God, I've used food for foreplay before, but she made buttering a roll into a come-on."

"I did tell you she was well-trained," Methos answered, chuckling at the amazement.  "But her behavior's been exquisite since you cracked down on her.  Has she satisfied you enough to warrant a reward, or does she need to finish earning it?"

"Aye, I'm pleased.  Are you?"  The younger man looked over, watching his lover in fascination.  The transformation from Adam Pierson to Methos still startled and aroused him; the lazy arrogance of the man lounging in his chair could not be mistaken for Adam's indifference.

"Certainly.  What do you think we should do to reward her?"

The younger man grinned at that.  "She won't come until we give her permission, right?"

"She'd better not," was the dangerously soft-spoken reply.  "If she does, I'll stripe her ass until she remembers it tomorrow, immortal healing or no.  Why?"

"What do you think about putting her in the middle and telling her not to be quiet... and not to come until we allow it?"

Methos ran some possible variations through his mind and smiled wolfishly.  "I think we can manage something.  And since she's the slave, shall we let her do most of the work?"

Both of them watched Gemma working quietly in the kitchen area, and smiled.  The two men sat and sipped hot coffee while she ate and cleaned up, coordinating their strategy in advance and lazily anticipating the planned activities.  Once she presented herself for more orders, Methos sent her around the barge to add wood to the fire and bank it, then turn out lights except for one lamp by the bed.

When the barge was arranged for the evening Gemma came and knelt between them, her gaze on the floor as she waited.  Duncan saw some plan roll across Methos' face and vanish again as he studied her, then the older man mused, "Didn't you say you wanted to see some handprints on that ass, brother?"

"I did miss seeing them last time," Duncan chuckled.  "What do you think?"  He watched her reaction through his eyelashes, eyes half-closed as if sleepy or very aroused.  The catch in her breath and flush across cheeks and collarbones brought a slow smile to his face.

Methos mentally marked the locations of the various blades in the barge; he'd last seen that look during Duncan's Dark Quickening. _On the other hand, I would imagine Gemma is, rightfully, wondering what she agreed to this morning.  Surprise, student mine.  The Highlander can be dangerous to his friends as well as his foes.  About time you learned it if you didn't already know._ Out loud he answered casually, "If you want to see it, you do it.  I don't feel like sitting up."

"Who said you had to sit up?  But I'll do it," came the caressing reply, Duncan's voice sinking into a purring growl almost an octave lower than usual.  He chuckled again and snapped his fingers.  "Gemma.  Up.  Come here."

Grey eyes were wide with startled surprise when she looked up at him, a rapid movement which threw some of her hair across her face.  She moved the few spaces necessary to kneel in front of the couch, between his spread legs.  The Scot held her gaze with his own, still smiling that predatory smile as one hand slowly smoothed wayward strands off her cheek and off her lips.

Fear clawed down her spine at the sight of the master she had thought was... softer?  Weaker?  More kind at least.  Adrenaline poured through her, starting a nervous tremor through her muscles that Gemma couldn't control and sending a rush of heat between her legs, across her breasts, pulsing against the too-tight skin of her lips and fingertips.

Methos watched in fascination as Duncan rubbed the palm of his hand across her lips, accepting her kisses without ever losing that dangerous expression on his face and in his eyes.  _Somehow, I don't think he needs much training for this.  Highlander, I know that a flexible mind is an asset in the Game, but you're making me nervous with how quickly you're taking to domination.  Although Kronos was never this controlled at this point, so at least it's not his quickening influencing you.  Perhaps it's a very good thing I talked you into remembering that St. Julien's was Holy Ground that time...._

Duncan wound his other hand into Gemma's hair, coiling it twice around his hand and wrist and silently guiding her up and over one leg.  She ended up positioned with her ass up in the air, facing Methos and unable to look down because of the grip on her hair.  The Scot pulled his other leg in, pinning her in place, and glanced over at his male lover.  "How many was it last time?  Six?"

Methos nodded slowly, studying Gemma's reactions to make sure she wasn't panicking.  Her breathing had sped up, gone quick and harsh, but her eyes were dilated with arousal, not fear, and her hands were bracing her on the couch, not clutching for dear life.  With one long finger he traced her lips gently, a reassuring contrast to Duncan's potent control.  "Six it was."

"That'll do then.  She's not in trouble, after all."  He caressed her ass as lovingly as his voice caressed the words, callused palm cupping the tight curve of muscle and fingernails scraping lightly along the skin.  "This is the same hand you were kissing, Gemma.  Appropriate, hmm?"

Duncan caressed the other buttock now, trailing his fingers along the skin, teasing the valley between.  He lifted his hand just as she started to squirm.  "Did I tell you that you could move?"

"No, sir," came the immediate reply, already just a touch frantic.  "I'm sorry."

The hand trapping her hair massaged the base of her neck for a few seconds.  "Feel good?"

"Yes, master....  Oh, Gods!"  She shuddered against a denim-clad thigh when his fingers teased between her cheeks again, pressing down toward the center of her heat.

"Hold still.  And don't be quiet.  Simple enough."  This time his fingers flicked out, a teasing swat that drew a shuddering gasp because it wasn't the blow she'd expected.  He chuckled again, that same low, dangerous sound that drove her farther and farther down into that place where fear and anticipation blended themselves into pleasure.  And still his hand only caressed or swatted, tickled or scratched lightly over her skin, never yet striking the blows she anticipated and feared.

Methos shifted on the couch, legs spreading slightly to give his aching erection more room.  Gemma wasn't the only one Duncan was arousing.  So far the Scot's touches had been caresses or light taps like a grandmother chastising a favorite grandchild's cheek, and the immortal woman was starting to relax a bit against the couch again. _I'll give him full marks for patience; I expected the first real blow at least a minute ago._   The older immortal smiled when he saw that, even trapped as she was, Gemma was trying to arch her ass up for each new caress.  _This will be interesting.  Hmm.  I wonder what kind of stories Amanda could tell?  And what kind of bribe I'll need to get them out of her?_

The Scot caught his friend's motion in the edges of his sight and turned his head to look.  The shift in position, and the reason behind it, were obvious to another male and Duncan smiled at him, deliberately licking his lips and tilting his head like a wolf considering a deer.  Dinner?  Or sport?

 _I don't want to find out that a hard-on can cause you to pass out from lack of blood to the brain,_ Methos thought grimly.  _I haven't been this hard since....  Hell, I don't know.  Come on, MacLeod, how long are you going to draw this out?_   The wolf's smile on the other side of the couch reassured him.

This time, when Duncan's hand snapped down, it was curved to catch as much of the surface of her ass as possible.  Gemma's cry of startled pain changed into a groan of pleasure as she inhaled again, and her hips bucked up to meet his hand.  She cried out in wordless protest when the next touch only rubbed along the muscle of the other cheek and Duncan chuckled.  "Patience.  You'll get everything you deserve before we're through, Gemma, put that fear out of your mind."

 Methos forced himself to lounge back into the leather of the couch as the next blow struck.  The slave's sounds of pleasure resonated straight down his spine into his cock, but she didn't need to know how little control he had at the moment.  The temptation to kneel across from MacLeod and alternate the blows with him, to take part in making that slender body writhe and flush and cry out in pleasure and pain both, was becoming almost overwhelming.  _Damn you, LaCroix, you spent ten years teaching her to control pain and she can still cut loose like this when we let her?  I thought you were trying to make it instinct for her to be silent!  Couldn't you have done a slightly better job of it?  _Jealousy reared its green-eyed head at the thought that the master vampire had seen her like this, reduced her to this, more than once... and first.

The jealousy coiled across the air, and Duncan tasted it in the back of his throat as he teased and tormented their slave.  For once he could almost see what the other man was thinking, and the image of LaCroix told him exactly who that envy was directed at.  Without thinking about it, he delivered two rapid blows and heard her cry out again in pain, and pleasure, and surprise.  Part of his mind registered the fact that his jeans were damp under her hips, which pleased him immensely and at the same time made his own erection more of a torment.  The Scot controlled the urge to bury himself inside that writhing form, reminding himself that they weren't through yet.

His hand rubbed along the red welt on one pale cheek, nails scratching to hear her whimper.  Catching Methos' eyes, he switched to Gaelic and asked in a silky growl, "Whose are you, Gemma?"

"Yours," came the immediate reply.  No hesitation, no question... and the plural form of the possessive pronoun.

"Good," Methos purred.  "Very good."  He reached with one finger to lift a tear off her cheekbone, then stroked along her neck with the same finger, tracing sensitive nerve endings.  Her cry of frustrated pleasure shifted to pain and back to pleasure as Duncan struck again.

"That's five.  One left," the Scot chuckled.  "Almost done, Gemma, then we think of something else to do.  Any ideas on how to make us happy?  Are you inspired yet?"

Methos glanced up and the dark lust in the Highlander's smiling face drew the immediate thought, _If she isn't, MacLeod, I sure as hell am!  I really hope he's going to stick to our plan.  Gods, if he doesn't, when this is over, I will put him in a collar for a week and teach him what a memory is for!_

Mac caught his eyes and smiled ferally.  "What was it you said earlier, brother?  Me, you ask.  Remember that."

Gold-green eyes narrowed but never shifted away.  "Oh, I will.  Count on it.  But later.  For now we have business at hand."  Methos waited until he could see the challenge accepted, then glanced down at the slave's ass.  "Very nice work, brother, but I believe you planned on one more?"  The older man cupped his hand under her chin, seeing the closed eyes and the way her hips were still straining up to meet blows and caresses which weren't coming at the moment.  "Open your eyes, Gemma.  There is no place to hide."

Duncan waited until he could tell from Methos' expression that she had followed the order, then he laid the last blow precisely onto the red mark already on that ass cheek.  "Six."  His thighs clamped down as her body bucked against the blow and she screamed.

Methos slid off the couch, dropping to one knee to meet her eyes.  "Don't even think about coming, or that spanking will be nothing."  The controlled menace in his voice chilled her enough to pull her away from the edge of pleasure and pain that the younger man had brought her to.

Gemma forced out the words, "Yes, sir," still gasping for breath and making little whimpering noises she obviously wasn't aware of.  The steady pull against her hair kept the slave from ducking her head to catch her wind as her body wanted to do; one sharp tug reminded her to quit fighting in even so mild a way.

As soon as she started to recover, Duncan released the grip on her legs and pushed her off his lap and onto the floor in front of the couch.  Methos' eyebrows rose, but he stood and shoved the coffee table out of the way.  _I can live with this modification.  Cushions are overrated anyway._ He stripped his sweater off with quick hands, throwing it carelessly over the back of the couch and unbuttoning his jeans.

At the same time, Duncan released one loop of her hair as he stood, giving enough slack that her neck didn't feel like it would immediately snap.  He growled one word, "Stay."  At that she froze on all fours, head tilted back.  He released her hair completely and stripped off his own sweater.  The slow rasp of the pants zipper sliding down brought a convulsive shudder of muscle down her back; other than that, Gemma didn't move, barely breathed.

The two men caught each other's eyes and smiled, both thinking the same thing.  Neither had bothered to do more than unfasten their pants, and as Methos moved forward the two steps necessary to get to her mouth, Duncan stepped forward as well.  The Scot's first step nudged her right leg open farther; the second step pushed the left out as well, until she was straining for balance and wide open to him.

MacLeod knelt behind her and positioned his cock at the slick entrance to her body, teasing her with the head as she cried out again and tried desperately to press back against him without moving her head as well.  "If she were any wetter, brother...."

Methos laughed at that, deliberately sliding his palm along the underside of his cock, keeping the tip a tantalizing half-inch from her mouth and rubbing her jaw with the other hand to relax the muscles before they began.  "She's certainly eager enough.  Did she please you this morning, brother?"  Gemma's spine lengthened as her body tried to press in two directions at once and a small, undistracted part of his mind remarked that it was absolutely amazing how limber a dancer's torso was.

"Oh, yes," came the laughing reply, but there was a darker undertone to Duncan's voice now.  His control was wearing thin as well.

Methos watched the Scot's eyes, appreciating the sight of that golden chest above her pale back, the way the hard cock jutted out from the faded denim.  Without ever taking his gaze off that tantalizing sight, the older immortal said pleasantly, "One last order, Gemma.  You can come after both of us do -- but not before."

Both of the Scot's hands rested on the curve of Gemma's hips, reading her reactions in every muscle twitch, every motion.  Duncan had been studying Methos every bit as intently as the other man was watching him.  He held the woman firmly in place as he watched the slender, strong man standing in front of them.  Firelight painted lines of light and shadow across the smooth, fair skin and outlined the cock straining barely out of reach of her mouth.

Methos scooped up Gemma's hair, pulling until she arched up onto her knees, arms coming up to clasp his hips.  As soon as she caught her balance with a hand on the couch, mouth still open and trying to reach him, both men moved forward.  Wet heat surrounded them, Gemma's tongue stroking Methos as internal muscles clamped down on Duncan.  The Scot's hands on her hips pulled her back against his cock, then Methos' hands at the base of her skull tugged her forward to envelop more of his length with that exquisite suction.

The two men quickly caught each other's rhythms, aided by the anxious, writhing woman between them.  Unrestrained groans and cries of pleasure filled the barge as firelight flickered across bare skin.  There were no thoughts of control now, only an increasing tension that fed back and forth between the bodies where they were joined, an uncoiling of power and force that tingled across them like the start of a quickening.

Duncan came first, pounding into Gemma furiously for the last few strokes as he exploded within her.  Methos heard him cry out, felt her mouth open wider to take in his cock as the other man's motions pushed her against the oldest immortal's body.  Her muffled cry of despair and pleasure against the sensitive skin almost made him come as well, but he held out for a few seconds more before spurting into her mouth and throat under the impetus of that clever tongue.

She swallowed automatically, arms bracing against the coffee table and couch as she relaxed and deep-throated him, shaking uncontrollably as her own long-denied orgasm finally rolled out from her center.  Gemma could almost feel the pleasure hit her fingertips and toes and rebound, waves striking back toward their origin like ripples in a small pool moving back toward the center again.  Somehow she kept from screaming, or choking, too caught up in blissful release to give any attention to the men, willing to pay the price if they noticed.  And still ecstasy wrapped around her, coiling through the center of her body, contracting through her in shuddering ripples, sparking under and across her skin until she was nothing except this one moment of pleasure entwined with, and enhanced by, the lingering discomfort from the spanking.

The first thought to move through her mind, when she could finally think again, was, _Oh, Gods, my arms._ Duncan had half-collapsed against her back, and Methos stood almost coiled over her, hands on her shoulders to stay upright.  The carpet under her knees didn't provide much protection against the hard floor beneath, and Gemma wanted nothing more than to sleep.  That thought she pushed hastily away as she concentrated on holding them up.  After a long few minutes, the Scot lifted his weight off her and regretfully withdrew from her body, sagging back onto his own knees with a groan of pleasure.

The older master didn't seem interested in moving yet, so she shifted her weight minutely, settling muscles to hold him as long as need be.  She could tell from their reactions that she had pleased them both thoroughly, and her own body was still purring from their attentions.  The last fading ache from the spanking sang sweetly through her blood, an enjoyable harmony to the pleasure.  Part of her mind turned to whether or not the bed needed to be turned down, and the rest contemplated the logistics of cleaning both of them in a shower that got a bit crowded with two people.  Three was manageable, but difficult, and she was trying to figure out how in the world to work on their lower legs when the older master finally released her shoulders and sagged onto the couch.

Freed of his weight, Gemma stretched and sighed in contentment as muscles relaxed, then turned to check on the younger master.  He had settled against the couch and smiled at her, reaching one arm out to pull her to him.  Gemma cuddled against his chest gladly, literally purring when he stroked her hair.

Methos smirked at her reaction but didn't open his eyes immediately.  He could hear Duncan's hand stroking her hair, and the sound soothed him as well.  Eventually, though, he asked what seemed like the obvious question.  "So.  Shower?  Or another round?"

~*~*~*~

  


Charleston, South Carolina - late morning

Damien hummed to himself without really hearing it.  He knew perfectly well he couldn't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow, let alone a bucket, but until he finished this patch job Stormy didn't have a stereo.  As soon as this was fixed, her computer was next.  Thorough bastards, he had to give them credit; they'd simply removed the hard drive, dropped it in a plastic freezer bag, and set it next to the floppy disks to take with them.  But replacing that would be easy.

With the last wire spliced and wrapped, the immortal stood and stretched cramped muscles.  "God, sleep would be so nice.  Almost done, though," he groaned to himself as he studied the room.  The kitchen was swept and organized, if not completely clean.  She didn't have a dishwasher, so he'd stacked dishes that probably needed to be cleaned in the sink.  Half of the contents of her pantry had gone into the trash, and dusting the flour and sugar off the stove and up off the floor had been an incredibly irritating job.  Every time he'd let his thoughts wander to the night's events, his broom strokes grew more forceful and suddenly flour would be in the air and he'd have to wait for it to sink slowly to the floor again before sweeping it up.

The dining room and living room had not come out nearly as well.  The carpet was probably going to have to be replaced; he didn't think the bloodstains were ever going fade completely.  The wall would need to be repainted, too.  He'd gotten the red-brown splatters off, but it left some areas different shades.  Everything that could be repaired, reframed, or reupholstered was neatly organized by the front door and all the trash was outside.  Unfortunately, that left lighter spots on the wall where portraits had been and holes in the arrangements of furniture in the house.

Pouring himself another mug of coffee, the immortal tiredly ran a hand through his hair, then crouched down to plug her stereo back in.  Soft, mournful blues immediately filled the room, echoed by his rueful chuckle.  "Couldn't have said it better myself, B. B."  He pulled his toolbox over and set to work repairing her computer.

The ringing phone broke through his electronic trance.  Damien picked it up automatically, and only realized when he had had it to his ear that he had no clue what to say.  "Storm residence," he finally said.

"Right.  Where's Stormy and who're you?"

Damien grinned despite the exhaustion.  "God, I love it when people are direct," he answered, reaching desperately for a cover story and falling back on stale, old truth, hard and dry as a cinnamon bun left on the stove overnight.  "Stormy is occupied at the moment, which means I'll tell her to call you when she comes back into the room.  And I'm Damien Appesard; she's doing an investigation for me and I came over to get the results."

After a brief pause, the voice on the other end of the phone sounded delighted this time.  "Oh, hey, cool!  She didn't say you all were meeting this morning.  Come by the office some time, I'd love to ask you about some of the code you referred to in that article on firewalls.  I'm Seth Eddington, Stormy's 'computer consultant' and phone sitter.  Tell her to call me next time she's coming in this late, would you?"

"Will do.  And next time I come by the office, I'll try to make it regular business hours and we can talk code for as long as it takes her to throw me out.  All I ask is hot coffee."

"Deal!  Later."

Damien shook his head when he heard the dial tone.  "She's going to have to explain the concept of paranoia to that kid.  That or make him watch 'The Stand' the next time he has the flu."

"To what kid?  Who was on the phone?"  Gold hair stood out in cowlicks here and there, and there was a crease in one cheek from the pillow, but Stormy looked wide awake.

"Your hacker who doubles as a receptionist.  He wants to swap firewall code, which makes me think he hates the damn things."

"Yeah, that's Seth," she answered quietly.  "We need to talk, I think.  Have you slept at all?"

"No," he said steadily.  "I told you I'd be here.  I wouldn't do you much good asleep, Stormy."

She nodded once.  "I need coffee."

Damien watched her as she moved through the kitchen, collecting caffeine and staring for a moment at the empty sugar bowl on the counter.  Without looking back at him, Stormy said, "Tell me something, Damien.  Did I hallucinate, or were you dead last night?"

 _She asks questions the way she shoots.  No hesitation and no missed targets.  Fuck.  What do I tell her?_

"If you've been awake, Damiano, you've been thinking about this.  You're not shell-shocked this morning.  You weren't shell-shocked last night either, although I was.  Either you never died, or you knew you wouldn't stay dead.  Will you please tell me if I accidentally got some acid last night or if I wandered into something out of the a fantasy novel, where people don't stay dead? "

The wooden chair creaked as Damien dropped into it, too tired to be careful.  "I died, Stormy.  Hurt like hell, too.  Drowning in your own blood is fucking terrifying."

"Terrifying?" she asked, voice rising.  "Terrifying?  Shit, Damien, I killed two men, do you understand that?  I killed a man who had a gun pointed at me!  I killed another one who shot you!  In my own house!  I'll tell you terrifying, it's watching a civilian die on your dining room floor using his last breath to tell me to protect myself!  What in the hell is going on?!"

"Stormy...."  He paused, tried to decide what to tell her, what not to say, and gave the effort up.  "All right.  I'll tell you everything I know, but there are a couple of conditions."

"What?" she demanded suspiciously, one fist on her hip and eyebrows drawing down in the start of a fine fit of temper.

"That you promise not to make any permanent decisions based on this information until you've both eaten and slept on it."  Damien glared at her, his own temper bubbling slowly to the surface.  After she reluctantly nodded, he added, "And that you keep in mind that the information I'm going to give you can kill me permanently.  Don't take this lightly, Stormy."

"I'm not taking anything 'lightly,' Damien Appesard!  You son of a bitch, four men broke into mah home, they destroyed half mah belongin's, pointed guns at us, and forced me to kill 'em!  God damn it, the only 'people' Ah've ever had to shoot at before now were competition targets.  Ah'm not taking any of this lightly and don't you think Ah am."

Both hands were on her hips now, coffee mug still wrapped in one capable fist; the color in her face and the outraged, carrying voice (which grew more and more thickly Southern with each offended word, he noticed absently) made Stormy even more attractive to him.  Unfortunately for Damien, she figured that out, too.

"An' Ah don't care if Ah'm a Pekinese yippin' at a Doberman -- Ah'll hound you out of mah house an' leave bitemarks in yore ass if you don't give me some damn good answers, an' Ah mean right now, Damiano."  She snarled the words at him, still moving forward to confront him.  "You glue yore ass to that chair an' tell me what in hell's goin' on that professional... whatever the hell they were, were ransacking mah house an' why dead people don't stay dead anymore, 'cause you know what?  Ah may have backslid on mah church attendance, but Ah didn't hear Gabriel's horn blowin'."

Damien focused on his breathing, drawing air into his lungs and forcing it back out slowly before beginning again.  When he felt sure that both his sense of humor and his temper would hold, the redheaded immortal sighed and moved to refill his own coffee cup.  He maneuvered his mass easily through the cramped quarters of the kitchen; what was more than wide enough for a 4' 10"  female who might weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet with running shoes on didn't quite cut it for a 5' 9" man who weighed two hundred stark naked and dry.

"All right, then, I'll tell you what my teacher told me, when she first found me working my way out of a shallow grave," Damien rasped tiredly.  "There have always been immortals, going back at least four thousand years, Aelf told me.  Edana told me later that seven thousand was what she knew about, but she wouldn't swear that was as far as it went."

"Immortals?" was the sarcastic comment.  "Really?  Sounds lahk serious egos to me."

A cold green-eyed glare cut off further comments.  "I can tell you this, or you can fall back on the excuse that someone slipped you acid.  Your choice, Stormy -- what do you want to hear?  That the world's black, white, and grey?  Or that some son of a bitch dropped some red on the inside of the rose petals where you have to look to find it?  You want to see reality, or you want to go back to playing with a nice, safe 'color by numbers' world where everyone stays inside the lines and the paint only comes in eight colors with a cheap-ass paintbrush that's coming apart before you finish anyway?

"I was dead, Stormy, remember?  I sure as hell do.  Hurt like hell dying and hurt like hell living again.  Nothing like coughing blood out of your lungs while the hole in your back is still healing and tearing every time you cough."

She flinched at that description; the too vivid litany of pain cracked through the protective shell of her righteous indignation.

"I can get my sweater out of the car," he went on implacably, in the same furious voice.  "You know, the one with the matching holes front and back, decorated with only the most modern trends of arterial tie-dying?  I was dead, woman; you wanted to hear this, well, sit there and listen."

"Ah'm listenin'," she answered more quietly.  "Are you all right now?"

"Everything healed before the police were ever through with us," he answered.  He unbuttoned his flannel shirt quickly and peeled it off, dropping it over a chair. "See for yourself."

Stormy reached cautiously with two fingers to touch where the wound should have been.  There was nothing there but intact olive-toned skin, dusted with dark auburn chest hair.  No blood was still matted in the hairs; he must have cleaned up sometime during that interminable period where she had slept the sleep of the traumatized.  Small fingers with chipped, pink polish on the nails probed delicately at the muscle and found... nothing.  No bruising, either the blue-black that should have been there or even the yellowing-green that might have been around the edges if he healed extremely quickly.  He was breathing too quickly, maybe, but not as if it hurt.  She realized that it was a very muscular, very nice chest about the time that it clicked in that his nipples hadn't drawn up from the cold....

She flushed bright red with embarrassment and arousal of her own, then turned away abruptly.  "All right, you definitely heal fast.  You were dead.  I'm not crazy and I've never heard of hallucinogens that produced delusions with internal logic.  You were dead.  Got it.  There's more of you out there.  Got that.  You call yourselves immortals.  Makes sense if you do this sort of thing on a regular basis, Mr. 'I'm gonna charge the maniac with a gun.'  Someone, or some ones, taught you... what?  Shouldn't they have told you not to charge men with pistols?"  Her defensive sarcasm scored gloriously on him; the pistol comments made him flush bright red, although she couldn't be sure what emotion had caused it.

"Stormy," he said far too gently, an angry softness in his voice concealing the honed savagery of his earlier comments, "don't push that too hard.  When I was studying with Aelf, no one had guns.  We didn't even have crossbows yet," he continued viciously.  "About the only things we had were too many Lombards and Franks trying to make their way into the Alps, and the Romans thinking that since they'd kicked out the Arabs, maybe they could look north, too.  And half the provinces from the Elba to the Channel were marrying their nobility into the Northmen and the other half were being raided, and the best trade in the world was amber and furs coming down the rivers out of Rus and slaves going back on the same boats, to the markets at Sevastopol, and Mosckva, and Constantinople."

She blinked and tried to decide if he had handed her decaf coffee or if she'd really heard that.  _Franks?  Northmen?  Traffic in amber and slaves?  What the hell?_

Damien took blatant advantage of her confusion and its resultant silence.  "That was in the early 900s, Stormy, back when Rome was still trying to put themselves back together from too many barbarian invasions and gilded Constantinople was still the Eighth Wonder of the World.  I'm over a thousand years old, Stormy.  Edana's older than I am; her teacher, Ramirez, was older still; and I don't know who taught him.  So, yeah, immortal is about the right word for it."

"How many of you are there?"  Somewhere in his digression, the mortal woman had pulled her legs up onto the chair and wrapped both arms tightly around them.  Her chin poked up over the knees of her dark blue thermal underwear, and her face was very serious despite the fact that she looked no more than six sitting like that.

"A lot.  I don't know," Damien answered more calmly.  "Several hundred, maybe.  We... don't always keep in touch."

"How did your teacher find you?  You said you were digging out of a...." the tiny blonde shuddered at the image that flashed through her mind.

"A shallow grave, yeah.  I lost a fight with a soldier who thought I'd cost him a job with the local lord.  The village didn't want to bury me properly, they just wanted me out and gone, so they dumped me in the forest. I always assumed the priest refused to bury me in the cemetery; I had talked back to him once or twice too often.  He thought my wrath amounted to suicide, I suppose.

"And immortals can feel each other, at a distance."

She bit at the edge of a thumbnail, then looked back at him.  "What do you mean by 'feel?'  Like someone touching you?"

"Ever walked into a room and known someone was there, even though you had no way of knowing?  Didn't hear 'em, or smell 'em, or see 'em... just knew."

"Yeah."

"It's about that easy to describe.  We just know."

Stormy shifted the topic, since she could tell that one was going nowhere.  "What did she teach you?"

Damien shrugged.  "Aelfgyfu was teaching me to fight with a sword and to think before challenging.  Then she lost a fight herself and I went to Rome to find Darius."  He saw the puzzled look on her face and answered the unspoken question.  "An immortal priest.  A damn fine man, he was murdered in his own church a few years ago.  Anyway, he parked me in the same barracks he was using and sent word to Aelf's teacher, Edana, that she needed to come get me and knock off a few more of my rough edges.  She did."

"What do you mean?"

Damien sighed and tried to find words to describe to a civilized woman what the Game was like.  "Immortals... have to know when others are around, Stormy.  Most of us are playing the Game, and if you don't pay attention, you're dead.  The rules are disgustingly simple.  Don't fight on Holy Ground.  Don't fight two on one.  Don't interfere in a challenge.  And there can be only one."

"Only one immortal?"  She stared at him to be sure she understood, then snarled, "Thousand year lives and you're spending them on vendettas and assassination?  Jesus, Damien, do you people just not have a sense of proportion?  What kind of artists could you produce with two hundred years to practice technique?  Or singers, or craftsmen....  Hell, medical research with the same person running it for a century or two?"

"How?" he snapped back.  "When we have to hide every twenty years if we're lucky, every two years for the really young-looking ones?"

"Hide from what?"  Then her brain kicked back into gear and reality kicked her in the gut.  "Never mind.  Y'all hide from everybody, don't you?  Do... do you stay dead if you've been burned at the stake?"

"No," Damien answered remorselessly.  "Of course, we don't stay sane either."

"What kind of challenge do you not interfere in?" Stormy asked in a more subdued voice.  "I mean, if you don't stay dead...."

The redhead took a deep breath, steeling himself for the worst of this.  "Oh, you can get us to stay dead.  Listen to me, Stormy, even if you come out of this hating my guts and tell me you never want to see me again, remember this.  To kill an immortal?  Cut off their head.  They'll never get up again."

"Cut off their--"  Her face blanched as her memory conjured up the first man she had killed in the hallway.  Her first shot through the parka pocket had been into his chest; even as she dropped to one knee, wrestling her gun from the pocket of the coat, she had been trying to get a headshot out of ingrained habit of giving a _coup de grace_.  But he had been falling, and she didn't compensate properly, and the bullet ripped through his throat, splattering blood everywhere....

She sprang out of the chair, barely making it to the bathroom in time to be thoroughly, rackingly sick as she threw up everything in her stomach:  not much.  Even after there was nothing left, the muscles continued to convulse, trying to bring up something.  When the last gagging attempt passed, strong hands kept her from collapsing against the porcelain.

Damien lifted her effortlessly to her feet.  Handing her a glass of warm water, he growled, "Rinse your mouth out.  Come on, Stormy, do it."  When she had, he put the glass back on the sink, flushed the toilet, and pulled her into the hallway and away from the nauseating smell of recent vomit.  Only then did he let her sag to the floor again.  "Easy, Stormy, take some deep breaths for me."

As the shock set in, she blanched and began to shiver.  He sighed and pulled her into his lap, wrapping warm arms around her, tucking his chin against the crown of her head.  "Come on, Stormy, nice deep breaths for me, good and slow."  When he could feel her ribs expand against chest and arms, he crooned, "That's it, come on, Stormy, keep breathing, easy, easy."

He soothed her with voice and arms, with warmth and live, human contact until she could breathe again without that little catch on the inhalation, until the shivers eased down into relaxation, and Damien was left with a compact bundle of female in his lap, all soft skin and rough-textured thermals, and herb-scented hair.  His body forcibly reminded him that it had been weeks since Crystal had been in his bed, and that this lady was very, very attractive.  The immortal cursed himself softly and tried to think about anything other than the very warm armful of female; Crystal Beauchard's involvement with Johannes finally sufficed in lieu of a cold shower.

When his voice was steady enough again, he asked gently, "Are you all right now?"

She shivered again, but tried to sit up.  When his arms didn't loosen, the young woman slapped at them irritably.  "I'm all right, Damien.  Let me go."  His frustated sigh made her wonder for a moment if he simply didn't want to let go, causing a small smile to crack her shell and bring more color to her face.

"Can you talk about this?  Because I don't know what you're going to decide, so I've got to warn you this morning -- well, afternoon -- before you throw me out."

"Throw you out?"

"Yeah, Stormy, throw me out.  I know a temper when it hits me in the face, and, lady, you've got one.  I figure I've got another half-hour, max, before you toss my butt in the street to think about all this, and if you get killed because of me I'm gonna be a helluva long time forgiving myself."

Sparks should have been spitting off her hair, and by the color in her cheeks Stormy was probably the major source of heat in the house at the moment.  "So you're going to warn me for your conscience?  Fine, Appesard, get it over with and get out.  I've got to get a shower and start putting my house back together."

"You mean your life," he corrected bluntly.  "Call a spade a spade, Stormy.  I've turned your world upside-down and I'm sorry.  Let me tell you one thing and I'll get out of here.  Send me the bill for your time and I'll pay it and never darken your doorstep again, if that's what you want.  But you need to know this, please."

His insistence irritated her even more, but the former military brat knew a stubborn streak when she saw it.  Like recognized like.  "Fine.  Tell me."

"Jan Urquhart is an immortal named Johannes Engeles.  If he comes anywhere near you, shoot the bastard and take his head before he can touch you."

"He's in South Africa," Stormy pointed out caustically.  "Why in the hell--  You think this is about my investigation."

"I don't know," Damien answered, his voice pained.  "I hope not.  But if I'm wrong, and Johannes is behind this, then you need to know.  Damn it, woman, all I'm trying to do is keep you alive!"

"You know what, Damien Appesard?  I did that all by my lonesome long before you ever darkened my doorstep.  Now I promised you I'd eat something and sleep on it before I made any decisions, but that doesn't have to be with you here.  I've got things to do, so why don't you get going?"

The immortal used every trick he had learned over the centuries to bank his temper, and finally settled for promising himself a long run and workout when he got home.  Instead of throttling the tiny blonde, or kissing her senseless, or shaking her until reality settled into place, he spun on one heel and headed for the front door.  He had to dodge the 'furniture to be repaired' pile, and stood motionless at the front door for a long moment, catching his breath against the quick inhalations of fury.

Stormy opened her mouth to say something scalding but bit it back when she saw the tension knotting those strong shoulders.  She barely heard the words he spoke, vaguely aware that if he ground his teeth any tighter, no sound would emerge.

"Stormy.  Reading the report sucked.  Getting killed in your house sucked.  But I had a wonderful time at the restaurant and the bowling alley."  He scooped up his coat from the table and pulled it on before opening the door.  "Watch your head, Sylvana Storm."

Behind him, the rumpled blonde in navy long johns listened to the echo of the slamming door and muttered fiercely, "Now he fucking tells me?"

~*~*~*~

  


Paris, France - dawn, the next day

Duncan propped himself up on one elbow and reached across Methos' chest to run a finger along Aidan's cheek.  "Awake?"

Without ever opening her eyes, she stretched to her full length, back arching and pointed toes dislodging the comforter on that side.  In the middle, Methos growled something incoherent as cold air hit his legs and curled around Duncan -- still soundly asleep.

The Scot chuckled and shifted the blankets the old man had just stolen so that they covered Aidan again.  "I'll take that as a yes.  It's dawn, Edana."

For a moment the woman froze... only to sigh and open her eyes.  "So it is.  Good morning, Dhonnchaidh.  Sleep well?"

He tilted his head curiously as he studied her.  The grey eyes were as clear as ever, but her morning smile was more subdued than usual.  _Hell of a word choice; Freudian slip, me?  On the other hand, Freud was a professional dirty old man.  Damn._ "Are you all right?"

"Honestly?"

"No, you stubborn Celt, I was wondering if there were any original lies left in the world," came the mocking reply.  "Yes, I need an honest answer," the Scot said more softly.  "Are you all right?"

"If you're asking if the relationship's been destroyed because I enjoyed being a slave... you'll have to tell me," she said slowly.  "It's... embarrassing, MacLeod, I won't deny that.  And I'm going to be prickly as any cactus until I get over that embarrassment.  I feel like I just went to be initiated with the Draoichtas and recited a Hail Mary instead.  Mortified would be a wonderful word, if it weren't for the fact that we don't stay dead.

"And you?" came her quiet inquiry.  "Are you all right?"

"I wish I hadn't enjoyed it so much."

Aidan closed her eyes and curled back under the covers.  "Aren't we a pair?"

"Yes, neither of you with enough sense to stay asleep and both determined to feel guilty about sex," Methos said grimly.  "MacLeod, will you please not brood this early in the morning?  And you, Edana, use your brain for something other than separating the bones of your skull.  Enough of this."

Cold air sweeping across them drew outraged noises from both Celts as Methos sat up, taking the blankets with him, and settled himself against the headboard.  "All right, woman, you like talking in the morning; just this once you can listen instead.

"Once upon a time there was an immortal, and he was very, very good at what he did.  And for decades, he practiced his trade, through good times and bad, without remorse and without regret.  And when he finally lost his sword and his fight -- because fighting and loving were what he did best, you see -- his opponent offered to let him live."  The austere, impersonal voice edged that offer with incredulous, ironic anger.  "And do you know what he said?"

Aidan sat straight, chin defiantly high, face cold and remote as Methos' own.  "I have no idea, Methos.  You haven't given me much of the story to work with.  Was this a challenge he chose, or one that chose him?  Did he want to live?  Or die?  Or did he care?"

"His lover had died a few days before, at the hands of his opponent's student.  Of course, the man on his knees had killed one of the victor's teachers centuries before."

Duncan recognized the story and closed his eyes, face pale as he remembered the sight of Haresh Clay kneeling on the grass within eyesight of Carter Wellan's grave, disarmed and bleeding and already half-dead inside.

Aidan asked softly, "No, Methos, I don't know what he said.  Tell me."

"He looked at the man holding both their swords and he said, 'It's what we are.  It's what we do.'  And his opponent knew truth when he heard it and took his head.  But they were both true to their nature."

"Three deaths, to find truth," she said softly.  "Cheap at the price, I suppose.  It depends on which truth you're paying for.  What is the point, teacher mine?"

His face gave her no clue and Methos pushed the blankets away from himself, crawling off the bed like an affronted cat.  "Think for yourself, Edana.  You did without me for three and a half centuries, you must have a little practice at it.  I'm going to get cleaned up."

The Irish woman pushed up off the bed and went to stand by a porthole.  She never opened the shutter, so Duncan knew she wasn't looking at anything outside.  Without turning around, she said softly, "How does he do that?"

"Be right?"

"No.  Slide the blade just into the tender spots and twist.  I don't feel like a born slave."

Duncan pushed aside the memories of the duel with Haresh Clay and said wryly, "Orders for you aren't exactly pouring out of my mouth, either."  The shower started up behind them and they both glanced in that direction.  Neither moved.

Finally, the Scot sighed and continued, "Aidan, in some ways LaCroix reminds me of Marcus Constantine.  Neither one of them is a fool.  Agreed?"

She nodded silently, still looking out the closed shutter.

"So do they think you're a slave?  Did LaCroix assume you'd go along with his idea, or did he know damned well he'd better ask?"

That drew a soft chuckle.  "He knew to ask."

"If last night taught me anything, it's that the master doesn't ask the slave anything.  You're not a slave, Aidan.  Not in Rome, and not last night.  What you are," he said softly, "is a woman living under the stresses of the Game who occasionally indulges a taste for a particular type of sex.  You're not an addict, gradhach, and you're not weak, and it's not sick.  Now, if you liked anchovy on your pizza...."

"Damn you, Dhonnchaidh, you're not supposed to make me laugh," she complained, turning to look at him as a reluctant smile spread across her face.

"Of course not," he agreed somberly.  "I'm supposed to live up to Methos' expectations and brood and sulk and worry, and let you convince yourself that you're a horrible, wicked woman and agree with you when you say so, so that he can be ironic and insightful and drink beer and feel superior.  But he didn't bribe me to follow the script.  What did he offer you?"  He grinned at the giggling woman and said, "Oh, the check bounced, hmm?  Are you surprised?"

"You are terrible!" Aidan gasped, still laughing.  "All right, Dhonnchaidh, all right.  I have an occasional craving for Thai food in bed, is that the analogy I'm supposed to draw?"

"Yes, well, I think I was just handed deep-fried squid.  It's okay, I wouldn't mind eating it again -- but not as a steady diet and not again any time too soon.  Going to hold that against me?"

"That you liked it?"  She shook her head.  "No.  That you don't want to repeat this anytime soon?  If anything I'm grateful.  It's not... easy, going back and forth into that mindset.  Or maybe it's only easy in one direction," Aidan added ruefully.

"I know," Duncan said quietly.  "I think what scares me is that it was--"

"Fun?"  Aidan smiled at him.  "It's all right.  It was good for you, Duncan.  You always worry about everyone else, you know.  It was nice to have you taking care of yourself for once."

"Even using your hands to do it?"

"And mouth, and other things," she answered mischievously.  "Yes, Dhonnchaidh.  Well, since I don't mind admitting I like Thai food, can I admit that you make a surprisingly good dominant?  I honestly wasn't sure you had the necessary selfish streak."

"You, my lady," and he stood naked from the bed and bowed grandly to her, "have a surprisingly wide streak of consideration yourself.  There's nothing wrong with being true to the odd corners of ourselves, too, so long as it doesn't interfere with keeping our heads."

"Corner?"  Aidan snorted in disbelief.  "If it weren't for the Game, you'd have lived out your life leading the clan, and probably still been giving orders to your heir on your deathbed.  Except in degree, that doesn't sound too different from what we did last night, you know."

"And I'd have never thought to be ashamed of it," Duncan agreed.  "If it weren't for the Game, Edana, you'd have lived out your life serving the clan in any and every way you could, and been proud of that when you went back to your Lady.  Sounds a bit like last night, doesn't it?"

Dark brown eyes met grey, and neither looked away in shame, or fear, or contempt.

"Do you know something, Dhonnchaidh?  It does."  More thoughtfully, she added, "The worst of this is that Methos is going to be incredibly smug if we don't brood."

Duncan shrugged.  "He's smug anyway.  This will be different?"

"No, not really," Aidan sighed.  "He's been ahead on points since I first met him.  I've given up on catching up; I just try not to fall too far behind.  Think he left us any hot water?"

"Yeah, well, I haven't caught up on points with you, either," the Scot pointed out.  "Even if I did win that bet about Gina.  But I still have hopes.  And if he didn't leave us hot water, we'll make him cook breakfast."

"We'll need our strength to catch those immortals," she agreed calmly.  "And since you were courteous enough to ask this morning?  I'm fine, Dhonnchiadh."

This time he believed her.  "Good.  And since you so kindly inquired?  I'm all right, too."

"Good.  Shall we hunt?"

Methos leaned against the frame of the bathroom door, toweling his hair dry, bare feet still pink from the heat of the shower under the dark red robe.  "Everything settled?"

Aidan shook her head in mock dismay and tugged him out of the doorway.  "Certainly.  We're going to clean up while you make breakfast, and then all three of us are going to hunt down two immortals.  Any other questions?"

He took in their body language, the cheerful concentration on matters at hand, and said calmly, "No, not really.  Try to keep in mind that I want to ask these bastards some questions before we kill them."

  
**~ ~ ~ ~**   


Over the next five days, three intent immortals prowled Paris from the richest districts to the poorest, on both sides of the Seine and on any island that might prove a hiding ground, and found nothing.  The hunters, whoever they had been, whatever their reasons had been, had vanished.

~*~*~*~

  


New York City, a few nights later

 _It's all my mother's fault_ , the young P.I. decided for the thousandth time since high school. _What kind of woman names a helpless kid Preston?_   Pete Martinelli (PT, from Preston Taylor) was of the firm opinion that romance novels had a lot of things to answer for, not least of them his name.  He huddled in the shadows, pulling his coat more tightly around him as he did.  November in New York City meant cold winds, blowing the moisture straight off the bay into your bones.

 _I hate winters in this fucking town.  Swear to God, soon's I get the money together I'm gonna move someplace warm to work.  New Orleans would be good.  Maybe Dallas/Ft. Worth.  Oughtta be plenty of opportunities for an up and coming investigator there._

He was so absorbed in his future plans, and trying to figure out how to light a cigarette without giving his position away, that the figure weaving along the sidewalk didn't really register.  When the drunk fell against him, knocking him further into the shadows, though, big city reflexes kicked in and Pete immediately began fighting his way toward the light.  The sharp, cold pressure against his belly froze his feet in place and suddenly the young detective was grateful he hadn't really had a chance to drink much the last few hours.

A harsh, cold voice warned, "Don't move.  We're going to talk, you and I."

Pete grabbed his resolve with both hands and took his inspiration from Thomas Magnum.  "Not a problem, whatever you want to talk to me about, I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding."

Shadowed eyes might have been black in the dim light, but the piercing intelligence in those eyes shot that idea down immediately.  "Whoever hired you isn't paying you nearly enough," came the answer.

 _Where is his accent from?  Not American, not English, not Australian....  Shit.  Worry about that later.  My assignment has made me and he's got a knife.  Fuck._ "Hired?  I should be so lucky, I'm self-employed.  Photojournalist when I sell to the good mags, staff camera the rest of the time."

The soft, staccato laughter didn't reassure the P.I.  "It's a good cover.  But if you were legitimate, you'd have asked for an interview yesterday afternoon after you followed me to the museum and the dojo.  Did you want to try again?  You're at least more entertaining than the movie of the week."

"You were at the museum?  Were you there for that great exhibit of costumes or the coins?"

"Not bad at all.  But you need to learn to change hat and coat if you follow someone for more than a day."  The soft chuckle sounded again.  "Fun and games are over, I'm afraid.  I have plans tonight and I didn't pencil you in on the dance card.  Give me your wallet."

"You're a mugger?!"

The grip on his shoulder would leave bruises in the morning.  "As much a mugger as you are a photojournalist.  Reach back slowly with your right hand and get your wallet."

 _Shit.  Death or mugging?  Mugging._ "Okay, no problem, why didn't you say you needed a loan?"

Humor flashed briefly in the darkened eyes, then the man took his wallet in one hand and pressed the blade more firmly into his belly with the other.  "I think you'll agree I can kill you faster than you can stop me."  At the slow nod, the 'mugger' chuckled and said, "So don't move.  I need to catch up on my reading."  Flipping the wallet open, he glanced casually at the driver's license to get the name.  Another laminated surface behind the New York logo caught the light, and when thumbed out revealed a private investigator's license.

"Photojournalist, hmm?"

The laughter had vanished from the man's voice and Pete stiffened.  He could guess what the guy had just found and not for the first time he cursed the need to keep that license handy at all times.  _Easy assignment_ \-- _right.  Next time I hear that, I charge triple._

"I don't suppose you'd listen to an explanation?"

"Oh, I'll listen," Russell Nash said coldly.  "But make it quick.  You've wasted enough of my night herding you into the dark for this conversation."

"Look, your wife wanted to know if you were sleeping around, all right?  That's all.  Do you want to see the telegram?"

That drew a raised eyebrow and then Pete's assignment, the supposedly harmless antiques dealer, started to laugh again, that same clipped chuckle that made Pete think some really bad joke was in progress.  "Mr. ... Martinelli, is it?"

"Yeah."

"First you're going to show me that telegram, then you're going to go home and think about your new job."

"I am?  What new job?"  Afterwards, Pete could never put into words why the look on Nash's face made him reach meekly into his wallet and pull out the telegram.  All he knew was that he did not want the physically smaller man in front of him to grow angry.

"Whatever you decide.  But you're not cut out for this."  Nash tucked the telegram into his pocket and spun the knife out of the way, concealing the blade in the folds of his coat.

"Just because you got lucky and caught me?"

"It wasn't luck," came the cold reply as his target backed farther into the shadows of the alley.  "And I'm not married.  Next time -- if you stay in this business -- check."

Pete stared after him, mind frozen and his body with it.  "But if you're not....  Oh, shit.  Then who did I send this morning's report to?  And who's going to pay me?"  The cold wind toying through his newly ventilated coat gave no answer.  
 

  
_~ ~ ~ finis  11/98 ~ ~ ~_   


  
_Notes, Comments, and Commentary:_   


1 - Joe made the mistake of promising to tell Aidan why he was going to Paris in the story 'First Harvests'.

2 - Yup, that's a real bumper sticker.  I'm trying to find a copy for a friend who was a pharmacist.

3 - Methos as a saint?  (The author takes a look at the sharp, pointy object not quite pointed in her direction and wisely declines to offer personal opinions.  For now.)

4 - Dunn & Bradstreet tracks financial data on major corporations both within the US and worldwide.  Most companies use a D&B report as part of their process in deciding whether or not to issue credit.

5 - Yes, you can run that quickly for that long if you routinely do distance training.  Marathons, which are set at a distance of 26.25 miles, have been won in just over 2 hours - a pace of just under 5 minutes a mile.  Most immortals who want to keep their head probably train for this kind of stamina, or something close.

6 - Aidan's memories of Joe date back to the following stories respectively:  'Dancing Days', 'Absent Companions', and 'Quarrels of All Kinds'.

7 - Buchenwald was one of the concentration camps during World War II, located in East Germany, near Weimar.  When Owain Rhys-Tewdor lost track of Aidan in 1939, she was using the name Danica Ostrau and working in Europe as a courier for the Jewish gem merchants of Amsterdam.

8 - In the last 2,624 years, the pole star has shifted to Polaris.  The heat passed/reflected by the atmosphere has varied.  (It was an increase in world temperature in the 900's which allowed the Vikings to begin their raids.  With warmer weather, they could put in the crops earlier without fear of frost and have the leisure to go viking to Ireland, England, France....)  Only the moon has continued to wax and wane through her cycles without changing significantly.

9 - Does Aidan believe in the Gathering?  Well, it's never happened yet.  But everyone else is playing by the Game, so she's not putting down her sword, either.

10 - To anyone who doesn't believe a Catholic priest would welcome pagans into his cathedral and respect their beliefs, I will tell you that I know a few who have and do.  And the atmosphere of the church and its Lady nave are exactly what Aidan felt.

11 - Janette DuCharme, Lucien LaCroix, and Nick Knight are from the series Forever Knight, and the interactions of the various immortals with them can be found in 'Shadow Plays', '[Nosferateu](nosferateu.html)', and '[Force of Habit'](forceofhabit.html).

12 - Yeah, I know Janette's met female immortals.  I have no idea why she played the innocent with Aidan, but I don't question vampires about their motives.  I'm always afraid they'll explain and I'll understand....

13 - Yup, the wicked witch jokes are from L. Frank Baum's Oz books.  Did he ever do anything with the Good Witch of the North?  I know Glinda ruled in the South.

14 - Flan is a hot, baked custard desert with caramel poured over it; sopapillas are deep-fried tortillas, usually sprinkled with either cinnamon sugar or glazed with honey and cinnamon.  Yum!

15 - Urdu is one of the official languages of Pakistan.  Do I have a clue what Damien was doing over there?  No.

16 - The attacks listed in the fight in Stormy's house?  I decline to comment on the grounds that they're nothing to play with.  If you really want to learn them, drop me a note and we'll talk.  But as the disclaimers in the movies say, please, don't try this at home.  You can kill someone if it's done incorrectly.

17 -  World War I didn't get that name until it was obvious that a second World War was going on.  In the early third of the century it was simply, The Great War, or The War To End All Wars.  Although excellent arguments can be made that the war between France & England which culminated at Waterloo can be called a world war as it was fought on no less than four continents (North America, Europe, Africa, and Asia -- I'm not sure about South America, but possibly there as well), technically it took World War I to bring in all 6 occupied continents.

18 - ' _Domine'_ is the vocative (direct address) form of the Latin ' _dominus_ ' - meaning lord or master.

19 - Adrianna of Constantinople and Owain Rhys-Tewdor are immortals out of my own demented little mind.  Sinan ibn Salman ibn Muhammed is a historical personage whose life I have taken the liberty of tampering with.  He headed the Assassins of Alamut during the time of the 3rd Crusade (late 1100s & early 1200s).  A nasty s.o.b. and just the type to do well in the Game.  If Wombat can play with Gilles de Rais, I can have Sinan.

20 - B. B. King is a Memphis blues musician whose fame is world-wide.  His guitar is named Lucille and was donated to the Pope recently.  Sorry, Joe.

21 - Stengel, and his records, can be found in 'Quarrels of All Kinds' and 'Shadow Plays'.

22 - According to the Highlander novel, _Scimitar_ , Duncan was captured and sold in the markets of Algiers.  Fortunately for him, Hamza al Kahir, an immortal of great kindness and skill, bought him and made the bondage as light as he could.  All fanfic speculation aside for the moment, in the novel _Zealot_ , Marcus Constantine mentions rescuing an immortal slave named Remus who was crucified;  that slave was Methos.

23 - BDSM is actually shorthand for B&D, D&S, and S&M.  Which are, respectively, Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, and Sadism and Masochism.  Bondage and Discipline is just that:  usually ropes or silk ties (so as not to bruise the skin) or leather shackles and spankings or other 'punishment'.  Dominance and Submission may involve some bondage or pain, but its primary purpose is to make very clear who exactly is in charge and move both the dominant and the submissive into the proper mindset.  Sadism and Masochism are (in order) giving or receiving pain for the purpose of causing and/or enhancing pleasure.  
      Safe, sane, and consensual are the three watchwords for all of the above games.  This means that nothing that goes on should cause permanent physical harm (safe), mental harm (sane), or be both a complete surprise and unwelcome to one of the participants (consensual).  If you do try this, make sure that you follow those guidelines.  If you don't believe your partner will follow them... find someone else.  Please.

24 - Many thanks are due to all the kind Dom/mes and subs on IRC who read parts of this story, answered questions about mind-set and preference, and gave me much feedback on this story.  Thanks, folks, it wouldn't be nearly as good as it is without the help.  All errors are mine.

25 - In the Roman Empire, laws were passed giving tax breaks, honors and/or rewards for being married, producing a certain number of children, etc.  There were laws requiring a man to sleep with his wife at least 3 times a week if they had less than 3 children.  The emperors were, understandably, concerned about the declining birth rate among Roman citizens when the empire was surrounded by so many enemies, who were quite, quite prolific.  Heterosexual brothels came much closer to being 'moral', and were more acceptable in such a military culture, than the ones which allowed/catered to the homosexual trade.  Both existed, mind.  If you're in a good mood for scandal, shame, and perversion, find Suetonius' _The Twelve Caesars_ , researched from the Senate library and records.  Oh, my stars and garters!

26 - Where did Damien get the clean shirt?  Well, Aidan helped train him and Aidan always has spare clothes in her car for occasions when the challenge and/or quickening got messy.... His gym bag is my best bet.

27 - ' _Quid pro quo_ ' in loose, but accurate, translation means, 'So what'll you give me for it?  Come on, buddy, there ain't no such thing as a free lunch.'

28 - Yes, Aidan and LaCroix have an... interesting relationship.  And Niagara Falls is a little damp, too.

29 - Firewalls have to do with the coding preventing unwanted messages/viruses/what have you from passing among computer systems.

30 - No, I have no idea why watching Steven King's _The Stand_ when you have the flu will make you paranoid.  But for the last 12 years, every time I get a really bad cold (aches, chills, high fever which always makes me loopy verging on delirious), one of my best friends gets this really evil grin and tells me I should watch it.  If you get the joke, great.  If not, sorry!

31 - Crystal Beauchard was Damien's lover.  Johannes Engeles hired her to spy on him, and she chose to do it from his bed.

32 - The immortals Methos talked about?  In the episode 'End of Innocence', Haresh Clay challenged and killed Graham Ashe in 1657 while Duncan watched from Holy Ground.  When Richie challenged and killed Clay's lover and companion of nine centuries in 1997, Haresh came for his head.  Duncan claimed the challenge and Haresh died as Methos described.  Why didn't Methos simply give the names involved?  I won't make bets on the Old Man's reasons, but I suspect it's because Haresh and Carter (his lover) were friends of Aidan's.

33 - Russell Nash?  Well, back in 1518, he was christened Connor MacLeod....


End file.
